


Willingly Damned

by lordmxrphy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Beautiful Disaster AU (minus the abusive and sexist undertones), F/F, F/M, Fighter!Bellamy, Friends With Benefits, Multi, Smut, Underground Fight Ring, also fights and violence, brief description of a panic attack (possibly triggering), it's pretty dark but there's plenty of fluff too, mentions of past emotional abuse, talk of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-22 14:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 45,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4839635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordmxrphy/pseuds/lordmxrphy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> A kiss with a fist is better than none. </i>
</p>
<p>Blood, fights, tattoos, and more than a little sexual tension.</p>
<p>Or the one where Bellamy is part of an underground fight ring and Clarke is in for more than she bargained for.</p>
<p>
  <b>Runner up for Best Hurt/Comfort Fiction in the <a href="http://bellarkefanfictionawards.tumblr.com/post/148206180382/congratulations-verbam-verbaepulchellae-on">2016 Bellarke Fanfiction Awards</a>!!</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. blood sticks, sweat drips

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I've been playing around with this AU for a little while and I've got an outline, but I'm not sure if I want to continue it.. so tell me what you think, what'd you'd like to see, if you'd want to see more, or just any thoughts you have:) Getting comments is the best, you can talk to me on here or on [my tumblr](http://lordmxrphy.tumblr.com/) <3
> 
> The title of the work is from Bloodsport by Raleigh Ritchie and the chapter title is from Kiss With a Fist by Florence and the Machine
> 
> (This is un-betaed, all mistakes are my own. Basic plot inspired by Beautiful Disaster by Jamie McGuire)

The air weighs heavily, sticky with the heat of too many bodies crowded together. Clarke can barely hear herself think over the noise. The crowd thrums with excitement, hopped up on alcohol and adrenaline: a dangerous combination. 

Clarke grips Raven’s fingers, her hand clammy with sweat as her best friend guides her through the tangle of sweaty bodies. The press of bodies around her is almost suffocating and she barely manages to stay upright, jostled from all sides. She spots a girl from her psychology class dressed in a low-cut black romper. Raven pulls her forward and Clarke loses sight of the girl in the sea of college students crammed together in the damp, stale basement. 

Most of the people are returning spectators and have left a wide circle of space in the center of the room. From the snatches of conversation around her, Clarke learns the fight starts at ten and should be starting soon. The crowd seems to be building in anticipation for the coming display.

They stop at the edge of the circle, only a couple feet away from where the fight is going to take place. Clarke turns to see Raven wrap herself around a pretty brunette, their lips glued together in a kiss that’s probably not altogether appropriate for public display. 

It’s hard to see much in the dank, dimly lit room, but Clarke recognizes Octavia as the slim girl with her tongue in Raven’s mouth. 

Raven and Octavia met when Octavia showed up at the car shop Raven had started working at over the summer to help save up money for school. Clarke was lucky, her mom was paying for school despite their strained relationship, but Raven had to do it all on her own. She had a full ride to Ark University, but books and other costs were all on her. Clarke could have gone anywhere, all she wanted was to get as far away from her past as possible. So in the end, a liberal arts school on the other side of the country with her best friend was the perfect choice. 

She and Raven moved out as soon as they could, renting an apartment for the summer until they were allowed to move into their dorm room a couple weeks ago. Clarke spent the summer working as a waitress while Raven got a job at the local mechanic. Octavia had shown up a month ago when her car broke down and Raven had fallen for her almost immediately. 

It was totally unlike Raven to fall for someone so quickly. Her walls were higher than most, and she had been burned before, but Octavia had busted through Raven’s walls like they were made of paper. Octavia was a whirlwind, a force of a nature, and she swept Raven up in a flurry.

Octavia was always in their dorm room, eating their food and walking around half naked, complaining about the heat despite the A/C unit that was on at all times. Clarke had grown fond of her, she could see how happy she made Raven and as long as they put a sock on the door or sent her a text warning her not to come by the room when things got heated, she didn’t mind Octavia’s near constant presence. She could tell Octavia was good for Raven, the two of them were similar in a lot of ways, both strong-willed, but where Raven had a tendency to close off, Octavia was open and communicative forcing Raven to be much more upfront about her feelings than she normally tended to be. 

Octavia’s a freshman like Raven and Clarke, but she grew up in the town next to the college and her brother also goes to Ark U, so she’s a lot more familiar with the social scene than either of them. Which is how Raven and Clarke end up in the stuffy underground floor of the science building, surrounded by coeds waiting to see two people beat the shit out of each other.

Neither Clarke nor Raven knew when they applied but apparently Ark University has a big underground fight scene. The fights happen sporadically, no one knows when or where they’ll be until the day of. Then someone sends out the first text, which filters out through a network of different people, until everyone knows when and where to show up. Octavia is one of the people in that network. Octavia’s brother is a Junior at the college and one of the main fighters, Octavia acts as his manager of sorts, controlling how much he gets paid and figuring out the details of the fights. Clarke had been surprised when she found out about the fights, but she knows Octavia and her brother use the money to help pay off student loans, and Clarke learned a long time ago not to judge people based on how they make ends meet.

It’s the Friday after first week of class and the first fight of the year. It’s definitely not the kind of scene Clarke had been hoping to be a part of when she came to college, but Raven is hard to say no to, and even though she trusts Octavia, Clarke didn’t feel totally comfortable letting Raven go to the first one of these events without her. 

She hears a voice over the crowd, a little louder than the cacophony of noise but not loud enough for her to make out the words. She moves closer to Raven to ask what’s happening, but her voice is drowned out by the crowd’s cheers and whoops. Once they calm she hears a woman’s voice speaking through a megaphone. She follows the sound until she spots a woman standing on a chair, her eyes are lined and dark, the shadows making her look even more severe and intimidating. She’s holding a wad of cash in one hand and the bullhorn over her mouth with the other. Her voice is clipped and as she addresses the crowd they fall near silent.

“Welcome to The Ground, my name is Anya and I’m the leader around here. We don’t have very many rules, but if you break them, you will no longer be welcome here. And trust me, you do not want to be on my bad side,” she stops to flash a menacing smile at the crowd, “We have two basic rules: don’t touch the fighters and pay what you owe. If you follow these two rules, you’ll be fine. Oh, and make sure you keep out of the way during the fight, we aren’t responsible if you lose something,” she pauses a moment, and a couple guys step back from the edge of the ring, intimidated. 

“But enough with pleasantries,” Raven snorts beside her and she and Clarke share a look, “Let’s get to the good stuff. Tonight, our first contender is a linebacker on Ark’s football team. Let’s bring out Jack Walker!” 

The crowd whoops as a burly man appears through the door in the back. He’s massive, his arms are the size of tree trunks and he fully capable of ripping someone’s head off. 

“On the other end we have our returning champ… Bellamy Blake!” 

The crowd’s cheers are deafening as the man calmly enters the room. He looks completely unaffected by the atmosphere of the crowd. Bellamy takes in the other man with a calculated look, sizing him up. He’s wearing a plain white shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders, dark ink snakes up and down his arms. His hair is dark and messy, a tangle of black curls. His hands are relaxed at his sides, while Jack’s are clenched in fists. Jack towers over Bellamy, practically buzzing with barely restrained energy.

“Alright boys, let’s try to keep this clean. First one down for three counts loses. Whenever you’re ready,” Anya finishes with wave of her hand, signaling the start. 

Bellamy and Jack circle each other, Jack lunges forward, but Bellamy skirts around him, moving quickly on his feet. Bellamy’s clever, fast, Jack seems to move at a glacial pace in comparison. It’s clear he’s getting frustrated. He swings again, messy and chaotic. Bellamy ducks and brings his fist up, Clarke hears the crunch of bone when it connects with Jack’s nose. There’s a spray of blood, and the crowd goes crazy. 

The fight is intense, Jack gets a few hits in, but he never lands a solid punch. It’s over quickly. Jack is on the ground and Anya is raising Bellamy fist above his head to the yells and screams of the crowd. There’s a cut across Bellamy eyebrow and some blood on his shirt may or may not be his own, but when he smiles triumphantly, the sight is so bright that Clarke’s breath catches in her chest. 

Jack’s friends carry him off to the side to clean him up and the crowd immediately starts jostling towards the door. In the confusion, Clarke and Raven get separated. She’s too short to see over the heads around her. Someone knocks their elbow into her head from behind and Clarke trips forward. Two hands grasp her elbows to steady her. She sees dark leather boots and follows them up over black jeans and a white shirt splattered with blood until she’s face to face with none other than Bellamy Blake. 

“You okay?” His voice is low and hard to make out in the din. Clarke notices when he takes her in. He smirks, “You look a long way from home, Princess.” 

Clarke feels whatever admiration she had garnered watching Bellamy fight evaporate. She jerks out of his grasp, her eyes catching briefly on the wolf inked on his right forearm. She looks away quickly. 

“I’m fine,” she grits out. People crowd around her as they move towards the door, another shoulder knocks into her and she stumbles forward.

“You sure about that?” His voice is smug and one of his eyebrows is cocked. Clarke rolls her eyes. She hears Raven’s voice calling her name and turns towards the sound, not even bothering to look back at Bellamy as she shoves her way through the crowd towards Raven. She almost runs face first into her friend, Raven looks relieved. She laces their hands together and drags Clarke behind her as Octavia leads the way outside.

“That was a hell of fight,” Raven grins once they’re in the fresh air. 

“Yeah,” Octavia sighs in fond exasperation, “My brother loves to make it a good show. I should probably go find him and make sure he didn’t let that guy hit him too hard. God knows my brother needs all the brain cells he can get. I’m really glad you guys came; I’ll see you tomorrow babe. Bye, Clarke,” she presses a quick kiss to Raven’s lips and takes off into the night. 

“So… Bellamy was something else…” Raven drawls.

Clarke snorts, “You’re already dating his sister, I don’t think it would be a good idea to go after him too.” 

Raven laughs, “Yeah, I think we both know only one of the Blakes is my type, and I’m already sleeping with her,” Clarke snorts and Raven smirks and rolls her eyes, “What about you?” Raven asks.

“Octavia is definitely my type,” Raven shoves her playfully, Clarke laughs. “I think we both know any kind of relationship right now would be a bad idea.” 

“I think you should give yourself more credit, Griffin. If you’re not ready for anything yet, that’s fine, but don’t hold yourself back from something because you’re scared you’ll get hurt again.”

“Wow, one healthy relationship and suddenly you’re the authority on dating, huh?” Raven huffs a laugh, throwing her arm around Clarke’s shoulders, but she drops the topic sensing Clarke’s unease.

They laugh and talk aimlessly on their way to the dorm, both still energized from the excitement of the fight.

That night strong hands and dark eyes pervade Clarke’s sleep. She wakes the next morning, shakes off the dregs of sleep, and tries not to think about the man she dreamt about with blood on his knuckles…


	2. let me dangle at a cruel angle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more fights. more blood. more confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter title from What Kind of Man by Florence and the Machine... you'll probably start to notice a trend with the chapter titles and songs... I'm trash for music and my otp)
> 
> [I made a picspam for the fic](http://lordmxrphy.tumblr.com/post/130319906172/a-kiss-with-a-fist-is-better-than-none-blood), if you want to check it out <3 
> 
> Let me know what you guys liked and/or what you'd like to see! You can leave me a comment here or on [my tumblr](http://lordmxrphy.tumblr.com/):).

She’s tracing patterns in her notebook, waiting for class to start. The third time Clarke catches herself outlining a figure with strong arms and messy curls, she flips the page and clenches the pencil in her hand, annoyed at herself. 

She slides open her computer to distract herself. 

She’s scrolling through her Instagram when a backpack thuds loudly, falling to the floor beside her feet. The person drops their body into the chair next to hers.

She’s surprised to find Bellamy Blake slumped in the tiny lecture seat when she looks over. Clarke stares, wary, unsure how to react. Bellamy ignores her, sliding out a notebook onto his desk.

“What? You surprised to see me, Princess?” He says rummaging through his bag for a pen. His voice is low and gravelly. Friday night, she hadn’t been able to hear him properly. Now, the low timbre makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. He writes the date at the top of the page before meeting her eyes with a smirk. She schools her features back into the cold expression she’s taken to wearing. 

“Are you even in this class?” she asks, blunt. 

He rolls his eyes, “Of course I am, I just don’t usually sit in the front row,” he gestures vaguely towards the back of the room. 

Clarke notices a few students watching their interaction with growing interest. It seems like everyone knows who Bellamy Blake is. 

The realization frustrates her. This is the opposite of what Clarke wanted. She was hoping to fly under the radar here. 

Resentment grows in the pit of her stomach like an ugly weed. She knows Bellamy hasn’t done anything to purposefully piss her off, but she hates him a little for drawing attention to her so soon.

Thankfully, the Professor starts her lecture before Bellamy can say anything else. Still, she spends the entire class consciously ignoring Bellamy. 

At the end of class, Clarke knows she missed some things in her notes, but she couldn’t help getting distracted by Bellamy’s leg pressed against hers and his arm nudging hers as he scribbled down words on paper. He seems unaffected, taking careful, clear notes. It rankles, how easily he pulled her focus. 

She packs her bag quickly, escaping the room before she lets Bellamy drag under in his current. She could so easily drown. She was just learning to stay afloat.

* * *

A week later she’s sitting across from Raven and Octavia having lunch. They both wave at someone behind Clarke. She turns to see Bellamy entering the Caf, a girl hanging onto his arm. 

It ‘s a pretty regular sight, Bellamy never seems to be anywhere without at least one girl by his side, sometimes two. Most of the time it doesn’t even seem to be the same girls. Clarke swallows her disgust. The girls know what they’re getting into. Everyone knows. Bellamy Blake doesn’t do relationships. 

He joins the loud group of guys at a table in the center of the room. He looks up and catches her gaze. He starts to smirk before his eyebrows pucker in a frown once he notices she’s sitting with Raven and Octavia. 

Clarke turns back around, ignoring him. 

Later, she gets up to refill her water and comes back to find Bellamy sitting across from her friends. On her side of the table. She sighs, taking a seat.

“Princess, I didn’t know you were friends with my sister,” he says by way of greeting. 

She suppresses a groan at the now familiar nickname, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of riling her. 

The past week or so he’s taken to sitting a couple seats away from her in their sociology class. She doesn’t know why. They aren’t friends. And they definitely don’t get along. Their professor tends to support discussion in their class. And Bellamy drags her into arguments. She realizes she could just not engage. But she can’t help it. 

Last class they got into a pretty heated debate. The professor ended up having to cut them off, and ask them to “continue after class” so he could continue on with the lesson.

To make matters worse, Bellamy’s impossible to avoid. It’s like suddenly everywhere she looks there he is. She knows that Ark U isn’t very big, but it seems like she and Bellamy’s schedules are almost exactly aligned. 

He makes her itchy, twitchy. Around Bellamy it feels too easy to fall back into old habits. And he’s everywhere she looks, like fate is tempting her. 

“Well, she is dating my best friend.”

“You and Reyes? Wow, I never would have thought you two would much in common”

Clarke and Raven smirk at each other, “A lot more than you’d think” Raven smiles. 

It’s an inside joke between them now. How their friendship started. With Raven’s cheating ex-girlfriend bringing them together. It’s definitely unconventional, but Clarke is happy she at least ended up with Raven despite that disaster. 

“Well, Princess, there’s another fight tonight. Raven’s probably coming, so if you want to, you’re welcome to join.”

“You’re inviting me to a public function? How sweet,” she answers, dry.

“Technically it’s not public. Only people who know where it is can get in. I was just being polite. Won’t make that mistake again,” his tone bites but his mouth is threatening to curl into a grin, like part of Bellamy enjoys their fights. 

“I’ve actually got a lot of work to get through, but thanks for the offer,” Clarke says, shrugging.

Bellamy frowns, a crease denting his brow. For a flash he looks puzzled, but the look passes too quickly for Clarke to be certain.

“Sure, okay,” he turns to his sister, “O,” Bellamy manages to pull his sister’s attention away from Raven, “Anya called me, the match is at The Wren tonight.” 

Octavia nods, pulling out her phone to message people the details.

“Do you know who you’re fighting?” 

Bellamy shrugs, “Some football player from VT, I think,” he turns to look at Clarke, “You sure you don’t want to come, Princess?” 

“If Raven wants me with her, I’ll go,” she meets his eyes, a challenge.

His gaze burns hot, but she doesn’t look away. After a moment he just nods, knocking on the table before getting up and going back to his friends. It feels like a victory.

“That was… interesting.” Octavia voice draws Clarke back to the present.

“What?” 

“You and Bellamy… You’re one of the first people I’ve seen in a while he couldn’t charm.”

“He’s not my type.” 

Raven snorts, “More like he’s exactly your type and that’s the problem.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, picking up her plate to leave. She slides her backpack over her shoulders and waves goodbye. As she leaves, she can’t help but turn Raven’s words over in her head. 

On the path outside the cafeteria, Bellamy falls in step beside her.

“Have I done something to offend you, Princess?”

Clarke grits her teeth, “Besides insisting on that god awful nickname and actively antagonizing me in class? Not really.”

She picks up her pace, but he keeps up easily, his long legs matching her strides.

“What is your deal? You look like someone’s torturing you every time I open my mouth!” 

She does her best not to roll her eyes. She fails, “I don’t have a deal! I just find your…charm grating.”

“My charm...” 

“Yeah, you know,” she waves her hand gesturing up and down his body, “That whole smoldering, fuck-me eyes, bad boy thing you’ve got going.”

He snorts, “I don’t have fuck-me eyes.”

“Yes, you do. You’re doing them right now. And it’s fine, but it’d be nice if you could just…turn it off sometimes. All the bravado and indifferent attitude. It’s so…fake.”

Bellamy misses a step, stumbles. He clears his throat, “Fake?”

“Yeah, fake. I don’t know what’s underneath all those tattoos or behind all those walls, but it’s not this asshole player you pretend to be.”

After that Bellamy is quiet. Clarke keeps walking, trying not to fidget. She hadn’t meant to say all that. It’s not that she doesn’t believe it. She does. But sometimes her mouth moves faster than her head. 

She spots her friend, Monty, waiting for her outside the library up ahead, and makes her escape.

“Right, um, I’m have Chem in five minutes, so I’ve got to go. I ‘ll see you around.” 

She leaves Bellamy standing there, brow furrowed. His dark eyes burn a hole in her back as she greets Monty, but she doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t see the way a small smile peeks out, softening his features before he shakes himself, pushing her out of his thoughts, at least for now.

* * *

Clarke had been planning to have a casual night in. She’s in sweatpants, Netflix is all queued up. Then Raven barges into their room. A hurricane in frail bones. 

Raven hasn’t slept in the dorm the past couple nights, spending the night at Octavia’s (and Bellamy’s) apartment instead. It’s been weird for Clarke not having her around constantly. Raven is loud, gorgeous, she takes up most of the space in any room. Clarke’s missed her. Which is why she lets Raven bully her into going to another one of Bellamy’s fights.

This time Clarke wears black jeans and a grey buttoned tank top. She borrows a pair of Raven’s black combat boots. It makes her feel more in control than she has in a while.

The fight is at an old hotel in disuse. It’s dusty, slightly moldy, and a vast improvement from the death trap of a basement last time.

They arrive late. The fight’s already started and the crowd’s beats out a tune of aggression and energy. They seem even more blood thirsty tonight. 

She and Raven find Octavia standing by the back wall. Her face is scrunched up in worry, more agitated than Clarke has ever seen her. 

“Bell’s off tonight.”

“Off?” Raven asks

“Yeah, something's wrong. He’s moving too slowly, not reacting to what the other guy is doing. I have a bad feeling.”

Clarke turns, craning her neck to see past the people in front of her. She catches glimpses of skin. Some dark and inked, some pale and sunken. 

Bellamy, who was so graceful in the last fight, trips over his own feet, unable to stay upright. He rolls his shoulders back, trying to regain composure. 

The guy Bellamy’s fighting has a crazed look in his eye. He looks like he might be high. He’s twitchy. Unstable. Bouncing around on his feet, a blur. 

He lands a kick in Bellamy’s gut. He falls. The shock of the blow seems to snap him into focus. He pushes himself up, his back grey with dust, and charges. 

Bellamy manages to catch the guy off-guard, laying into him with heavy fists. His opponent brings his knee up. Hard. Clarke hears it connect with a sickening crunch. 

Dark red blood darkens the floor, staining it slick. 

Clarke finally catches a good glimpse of Bellamy’s face. Blood falls in rivulets from his nose. He’s off-balance, off-kilter. Metal hardens to steel. He looks dangerous, lethal. Her heart thumps loudly. Din fades to dust around her. 

Bellamy swings out. Left fist. Lightning speed. His opponent partially dodges the blow only to get plastered by Bellamy’s right hook. 

He falls. Tries to get up. Collapses. Cheers deafen Clarke’s ears.

As soon as Anya lifts Bellamy’s arm in victory, Clarke is pushing forward through the crowd. It’s thoughtless. Pure instinct. 

Everyone’s jostling, exchanging bills, cashing in on their bets. Clarke uses her elbows to finally reach Bellamy. 

He stands there, swaying. Completely out of it. Wrecked. Blood drips down his neck, sticks to his bare torso. 

Clarke grabs his hands, red and raw from the fight, and drags him away. They stumble around the corner. He lets her lead him away from the crowd to the bathroom. 

She takes a breath. Reveling in the near silence of their seclusion. She picks up the roll of paper towels on the floor. Her fingers grasp his jaw so she can examine the damage. 

His nose luckily doesn’t seem to be broken. Clarke wishes she had more to work with, but she settles for paper towels and cool water to clean Bellamy’s face. She’s careful, but he winces occasionally. He watches her the whole time with dark, unfocused eyes.

“What are you doing here, Princess?”

“You invited me,” red gives way to brown skin and a scattering of freckles. 

His thumb comes up to her forehead, smoothing the crease between her eyebrows. The gesture surprisingly tender, “I thought you hated me,” his words slur slightly. 

Clarke sighs, her hand pauses, “Hate’s a strong word.”

His eyes seem impossibly deep. She watches his throat work as he swallows. 

Octavia and Raven crash through the door. Octavia takes one look at her brother and her face hardens.

“What did you take?”

“What? God—Fuck, O. I’m not high. I swear,” his words trip across his lips, but he’s sounding more steady by the second, his voice nearing normal.

“Then what the fuck’s wrong with you?” Octavia looks steeled for a fight. Raven crosses her arms beside her, stoic, unforgiving. 

Raven can accept a lot of things. Drugs isn’t one of them. Not with what happened to her mom.

Bellamy clears his throat, nervous. Clarke wants to smile at the fact that fights and frenzy don’t faze this boy. It’s the wrath of his baby sister that scares him.

“Miller broke up with Matt today. He needed a drink. And I couldn’t let him drink alone.”

“God, Bellamy! Do you know how dangerous that is? That guy could have seriously hurt you.”

“I know. I know, O. I’m sorry.”

“You will be sorry if your nose is broken,”

“It’s not,” Clarke assures her. Bellamy and Octavia turn to her.

“How do you know?”

Clarke reaches her hands forward bringing them up to Bellamy’s face, he stays still, she presses lightly on the side of his nose, checking again. He winces slightly, she gives him an apologetic smile.

“It’s not broken. Trust me, I know how to tell by now,”

“You…? You know what? I’m not even going to ask,” Octavia runs her hand through her hair, still tense. 

Bellamy’s watching Clarke like he’s trying to decode her, solve the puzzle of her brain. She shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

Clarke and Raven exchange a look, “We should probably get Bellamy back to the apartment.”

Octavia nods, she squeezes Raven’s hand once, grateful, before positioning herself on Bellamy’s other side to help him get to the car. 

Octavia drives Bellamy’s car back. Raven’s feet are up on the dash. She’s fiddling with the radio in the passenger seat. She keeps Octavia distracted while Clarke is in the backseat taking care of Bellamy. Which really just means making sure he doesn’t pass out from the mixture of alcohol and blows to the head. 

At the apartment Clarke uses the first aid kit in the bathroom to cleans Bellamy’s face and wraps his fists in gauze. 

She finishes and starts to pull away but he stops her, grabbing her hand, “Thanks… for tonight. You didn’t need to take care of me.” 

Dried blood still rings his fingers. His warm palm burns her skin.

Clarke shrugs, she doesn’t know how react to the sincerity in his voice. 

She suppresses a shiver at the look in his eyes. He looks wild, untamable, like a force of nature. And for the first time Clarke lets herself think that she could be swept up by Bellamy Blake.

His face is serious, “Thank you, Clarke. Really.”

She smiles, brushes some hair back from his forehead without thinking. The touch is startlingly affectionate. Bellamy’s eyes widen. Clarke pulls her hand away swiftly. 

She clears her throat, “It was no problem.”

* * *

She and Bellamy fall into an odd friendship after that night. It’s more passive camaraderie than anything. They still bicker in class, but sometimes Bellamy will sit next to her in the library. Or she’ll smile at him in the dining hall. It’s nice. Friendly. Safe.

Only Clarke keeps catching herself watching the way his mouth moves, how his lips form words. It’s a distraction. He’s beautiful and she keeps noticing it. 

She felt the same way about Raven when she first met her. But with Bellamy the air thrums. Tense and electric. Raven constantly teases her about sexual tension. Clarke argues with her sometimes, but most of the time she doesn’t bother. It’s true. Bellamy is intoxicating. 

She knows he’s everything she doesn’t need, but God does she want him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty excited for the next part, it's going to start to get more... let's say heated, shall we? In other words, the rating will probably go up in the next chapter;)
> 
> What are you guys enjoying so far? Do you want to see more fights? More Octaven? Do you want to meet Miller? Let me know!
> 
>  
> 
> [You can also check out the picspam I made for this fic if you're interested <3](http://lordmxrphy.tumblr.com/post/130319906172/a-kiss-with-a-fist-is-better-than-none-blood)


	3. I bet you kiss your knuckles right before they touch my cheek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Clarke and Bellamy hook up it’s like a fight. All teeth and nails. Vying for control. She gasps, he groans.  
> Bellamy gets on his knees and Clarke forgets everything but his name as it tumbles again and again from her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, two updates in one week!! Guess who's killin' it? *points at self* this guy! (More like I'm avoiding school work, but... semantics.)
> 
> Anyway I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! Let me know what you think. Leave me a comment or come talk to me on [my tumblr:)](http://lordmxrphy.tumblr.com/)
> 
> And I made an edit for this fic guys!! [Check it out](http://lordmxrphy.tumblr.com/post/130319906172/a-kiss-with-a-fist-is-better-than-none-blood) <3
> 
> (chapter title from Trouble by Halsey)

She doesn’t realize being friends with Bellamy is weird until Monty asks her about it.

Clarke met Monty when they got paired as lab partners in Chemistry. Monty’s a sophomore at Ark U, majoring in physics. He’s soft, kind, and they clicked pretty quickly. They have the same taste in movies—Monty geeked out when Clarke showed him her Lego R2D2 keychain. He brings a measure of calm to her life she desperately needs. 

They’re studying together in the library and Clarke feels about ready to bang her head against the table rather than solve any more problem sets.

She misses his question the first time. Lost in a sea of equations.

“What?”

“Are you dating Bellamy Blake?” 

The question catches her so off guard she takes a full minute to respond “No. Definitely not. Why?”

“Someone told me you were,” Monty shrugs. “Thought I’d ask you myself,” he looks back down at his work, unconcerned.

“We’re not dating.”

Monty looks up again, “Okay.”

“We’re just friends.”

He nods, easy smile, “Yeah, but the thing is Bellamy doesn’t usually hang out with girls he isn’t sleeping with. And you two seem so easy together. I guess that’s why people assume you’re dating.”

“People—people are talking about us?”

“I thought you knew.” Her expression must betray alarm because Monty hurries on, “They aren’t saying bad things. It’s just speculation. People are running low on gossip and our campus’s most notorious bachelor getting a girlfriend seems to be enough for people around here. I’m sorry I brought it up,” his eyes are apologetic and wide with worry.

“No, I’m glad you told me. Really,” she stares down at her work, unseeing. Mind tumbling through minefields of worse case scenarios. 

She mentions it to Raven later that day, they’re sitting in their room painting their nails. Clarke’s blue and Raven’s dark red.

Raven cackles, “Seriously? That’s pathetic, don’t people have anything better to talk about?” She catches the dark look in Clarke’s eye, “Hey, it’s not a big deal, just people talking.”

“Exactly, people are talking. That’s the last thing I want. I don’t want this to be high school all over again.”

“Babe, that was completely different. And anyway, I’m sure people will get bored and move on soon. You and elder Blake aren’t all that interesting, trust me.”

“Has Octavia said anything?”

“You know, Griffin, Octavia and I don’t spend a whole lot of time talking about you and her brother when we’re alone. Most of the time we don’t spend much time talking at all,” she winks.

Clarke rolls her eyes. Raven laughs but she goes on, “She did say it’s weird to see him with a girl he’s not actively trying to sleep with, but otherwise I really don’t think she cares. Soon everyone else will get used to you and Bellamy being friends and move on with their sad, little lives.”

  


* * *

  


She wakes up to the glaring trill of her phone on the nightstand. She blinks, bleary-eyed. Phone screen too bright.

“Hello?” her voice is rough with sleep. Her eyes stick with each blink, tempting her back to oblivion.

“Clarke?” She sits up, immediately awake. Bellamy’s deep voice breaks through the receiver. Something’s wrong.

“Bellamy? What’s going on? Are you okay?” words stumble from her mouth in a rush. Her heart beat picks up.

“I need you to come pick me up. I—I shouldn’t drive right now.”

She takes a deep breath. She can handle this. Handle anything.

“Where are you?”

“The Dropship, it’s on 24th. Do you know it?” Clarke does, it’s a bar on the seedier side of town.

“Yeah, Raven told me about it. Okay, I’m coming, Bellamy. I’m on my way.”

She slips on a sweatshirt over her pj’s, not bothering to change.

She pulls up outside the bar. She doesn’t spot Bellamy immediately, but when she does, she yanks the parking break in place, out of her car and in front of him in the blink of an eye.

She crouches next to him on the curb. He’s sitting with head in his hands. 

“Bellamy?” her voice is soft, like she’s approaching a scared, wild animal.

He jerks up. Clarke gasps. The right side of his face is caked with blood, drying and crusty. His bottom lip is split and he has the beginnings of a black eye. She looks at his hands, raw, cut up, bruised. From a fight. She knows it. The look on his face is lost and broken. She’s never seen him look so young.

“Thanks for coming, Princess,” low voice wrinkled with pain and gravel.

  


* * *

  


The drive to his apartment is silent. Interrupted only by the tick of her blinker when she signals. 

She doesn’t help him out of the car. Her heart lies in her chest, ice cold.

She waits for him by the front door, sighing when he fumbles his keys. She grabs them and lets them into the apartment.

It’s dark and empty, quiet with the absence of people. It feels like a ghost town.

She opens the door to the bathroom and grabs the first aid kit from where she found it last time. She hates that this might become a regular occurrence. Cleaning up Bellamy after a fight. It’s too familiar, too close to home, she feels sick to her stomach.

She brings the kit out to the kitchen and gestures for Bellamy to sit down in one of the small, rickety chairs. She takes another, setting the supplies on the round table beside her.

His face is a mess. Bruised, cut over his eye brow, open lip. She cleans and disinfects, but there’s not much else she can do. 

His hands are in even worse shape tonight. His right fingers are tender; bright red welts coat his knuckles. Like he punched a wall.

The silence threatens to suffocate her so she opens her mouth, “What the fuck happened, Bellamy?”

“I got in a fight.”

“No fucking shit. I meant why, why did you do this to yourself?”

“I didn’t—,“ she raises her head, gaze sharp. His mouth falls shut. He swallows and stares at a point behind her, refusing to meet her eyes.

“Octavia and I got in a fight.” 

Clarke waits for him to go on.

“I was just trying to help, trying to look out for her.” He turns his head, even more pointedly not looking at her, “I looked into Raven’s past.”

Clarke drops his hands like they’re made of fire. Her chair screeches as it skids backwards, an ugly sound. She takes a few steps back.

He’s looking at her, eyes desperate, begging.

“Clarke, try to understand. I barely know Raven. And Octavia is so serious all the time. She doesn’t do things half-way. I didn’t want her to get hurt. You two showed up here out of nowhere. What was I supposed to do?”

Clarke hardens. Glass to stone. 

“What did you find?” harsh words, sharpened at the edges, they cut her tongue.

“I— I found out about Raven’s mom. That she was arrested a few times. Drunk driving, possession. That—that she OD-ed,” He looks up at her, “I swear, I swear I wasn’t doing it to be an asshole, or to hurt you or Raven. But I know what it’s like to be abandoned by a parent. I know what that does to someone. It can get dark, and with a parent who’s an addict it’s worse. 

I asked O if she knew and she blew up. She’s so angry at me. For invading Raven’s privacy. For not trusting her. And I didn’t—didn’t know how to deal. So I ended up at The Dropship, picking a fight with some drunk asshole for no reason. Because fighting I can do. That I know.”

He says the last part staring at his hands. Clarke feels terrible at the smudge of relief that stains her anger. (He only knows only knows one small side of the story.) She quashes it.

“You had no right, Bellamy,” she spits the words.

“I know.”

“You had no fucking right to look into Raven. To judge her because of who her mother was, what her mom did. That’s exactly why she didn’t want people to know.”

“I know that! I got this from Octavia! I get it okay?! I messed up. Big time. I only called you because I couldn’t think of what else to do.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. Don’t pretend like there weren’t other people for you to call. You chose me. You chose to call me because you knew I wouldn’t let you off the hook.”

“Whatever,” Bellamy stands, shuffling his way to the room.

“Don’t fucking walk away. You called me, Bellamy. You don’t get to turn your back on this conversation. I’m not done yet.”

“Well, I’m fucking done.”

“I knew we shouldn’t have trusted you,” She accuses his back. He freezes. She watches him turn.

“Trusted me?!” She flinches at the acid in his voice, “You call what you’ve been doing trusting me?? What the FUCK?!

You show up. Out of nowhere. Neither you nor Raven mention parents or family back home. You don’t talk about your past. It’s like you fucking appeared out of thin air. I don’t know anything about you! Except that you somehow know how to stitch people up from fights. You’re a goddamn mystery to me, Clarke.”

He’s a breath away by the time he says her name. Heaving and angry and inches from her face. His lips are stained red from the split cut on his bottom lip. His eyes capture her, magnetized, electric, enrapturing. She can’t look away. 

She doesn’t know who takes the first step, whose lips capture whose. 

They tear into each other. She can taste his blood on her tongue. He pushes her against the wall, kissing her almost violently. She gasps, breath heavy in her lungs. She grinds against his leg, desperate for friction. 

He peels off his shirt and she takes off her sweatshirt and shirt. Her breasts are bare in front of him. He kisses her, thumb teasing her nipple until she gasps. She unbuttons his jeans. He helps her, grabbing a condom from the back pocket of his pants. Foil crinkles and then he’s back, licking into her mouth, flames licking up her body. Her shorts get tossed onto the floor behind them.

 

He pauses, question in his eyes, on his lips, “You okay?” She nods, frantic, desperate, sure.

He pushes into her. It’s hard and fast and dirty. Her breath hitches. He kisses her until she’s desperate for breath, his lips stealing oxygen from her lungs. His hand slides between them, rough and calloused and perfect. 

They fuck like they fight. All heat and anger. Bellamy sucks a spot dark on her neck. Clarke’s nails rake his shoulders, red lines meeting black ink on his dark skin. 

She combusts. He follows her.

Heavy exhales. Pressed against the wall. She wilts. His teeth skim her collarbone before he backs away, pulling out and disposing of the condom. 

Her hair sticks to the back of her neck and her thighs are liquid and languid, utterly pliable.

The room is flooded with night; Clarke watches Bellamy in shades of grey. He comes back, the glow from a streetlamp lighting the planes of his faces. His eyes are dark, heavy with lust. He’s not done yet and neither is she.

“Which room is yours?” 

He grins. Dark, intoxicating, reverent.

  


* * *

  


The next morning Clarke’s just poured fresh coffee into a plain white mug she found in a cabinet when a key clicks in the front door. She turns, expecting to face Octavia—and most likely an interrogation—but instead comes face to face with a man.

He looks like he’s probably a student, maybe one or two years older than her, a junior at the college. He has a dark skin, a neatly trimmed beard and is wearing flannel pajama bottoms in their school’s colors. 

He could not possibly look less threatening. The man is barefoot. She smiles, “Hey.”

His face is a mask of apology.

“Sorry, I didn’t think anyone would be up.”

“Which of course makes it okay to break and enter,” she teases, tone wry. He chuckles and it feels like a victory, despite the fact that she just met him. It’s more the way he looks surprised at his own laugh.

He holds up the key he used to get in, “It’s not breaking and entering if Bellamy gave me a key for emergencies.”

“What’s the emergency?”

“I ran out of milk.” Clarke grins, he doesn’t even have the decency to look sheepish, “I’m a coffee addict, but I can’t drink the stuff black. I’m Miller by the way. I’m friends with Bellamy and live across the hall.”

“Clarke. I’m Bellamy’s friend. It’s good to know his social circle doesn’t just consist of me and his sister. It was getting a little sad.”

Miller snorts, “Yeah, the kid can be surprisingly anti-social.”

About an hour later, Bellamy stumbles out of his room still half asleep. He freezes when he spots Clarke with Miller in the kitchen. He blinks an absurd amount of times.

The two of them are standing in the kitchen with their coffee. They’ve spent the last hour talking and making more sarcastic remarks than probably should be allowed. 

Clarke’s learned that Miller is majoring in criminal justice and that he and Bellamy lived in the same dorm their freshman year.

Bellamy’s right eye is dark purple, bruised and ugly. There’s a cut on his eyebrow and his hands are bruised around the knuckles, the cuts on his fingers are beginning to scab over. 

“Dude, are you okay?” Miller asks, concerned.

“I got in a fight,” Bellamy says, dismissive. Miller frowns. “It’s fine, Clarke took care of me.” 

Miller glances at Clarke, they share a look, concern and exasperation mix the air.

“This is a weird fucking dream,” Bellamy still watching them like it’s the most bizarre scene he’s ever encountered.

Miller rolls his eyes, “This is why he doesn’t have more friends,” he says to Clarke. She grins.

“Miller came over looking for milk and we ended up talking,” she checks her phone, quickly getting up when she sees the time. “Shit. I have to go, my class is at 11 and I don’t have any other clothes with me.” She looks at Miller, “Call me later and we’ll go get some real coffee.” 

He grins, nodding.

Clarke grabs her keys and her phone from the table, slides on her sweatshirt. She passes Bellamy on her way to the door. Still looking baffled.

“You’re an asshole, and what happened with Raven wasn’t okay, but I understand why you did it,” she pecks his cheek, “Apologize to Octavia. If you grovel a little, she’ll be fine. Let me know if you need someone to go with you to get your truck from the bar. I’ll see you in class.”

  


* * *

  


Bellamy’s leaning against the brick wall outside her building after her class. Somehow he’s managed to learn her whole schedule, while she doesn’t have a clue what classes he’s in besides the one they share. All she knows is that he’s majoring in Criminal Justice like Miller.

Sunshine cuts through his black curls. With the tattoos and black eye, he looks dangerous, dark. But when he sees her he breaks into a smile. It waters his face, making him seem softer, younger.

They get lunch, same as always. Clarke is happy that after last night there is no mess of emotions or awkwardness.

Bellamy clears his throat, “So, this morning was interesting…”

“Yeah, how so?”

“Miller doesn’t usually talk to people.”

“What do you mean?”

He huffs, “I mean he doesn’t usually talk to people.”

Clarke shrugs, “Well, he talks to me.”

“Yeah, it’s weird.”

“No, it’s not. Maybe he just doesn’t talk to you because you have all these weird hang-ups.”

Bellamy snorts. 

“So… about last night…” he starts. 

“Last night was good.” A slice of memory—Bellamy’s teeth, his mouth, teasing her. Goosebumps erupt on her skin, “Really good. We should do it again sometime.”

“Yeah?” he’s hesitant. Maybe he thinks she has some kind of expectation from him now.

“As friends, obviously. Neither one of us wants a relationship. But yeah, we should do that again.”

His face shutters a moment, then he smiles. Handsome and crooked. It sparks a flame in her belly.

“Counting on it, Princess.”

  


* * *

  


The next week, they’re in the library late one night, both working on an essay for their sociology class. 

Clarke feels itchy. Anxious. She looks over at Bellamy, desperate for a distraction. His shoulders are tense and he’s chewing on the end of pen so hard it might burst. His tongue flicks the edge and she traces the movement. She takes off her sweater feeling hot. When she looks up Bellamy is staring at her. His eyes trace her body and she can feel it like a touch. Heat pools deep in her stomach.

She can’t stop thinking about their bodies the other night. How he felt in her hand. Inside her. How much she wants him.

Fuck it.

She leans over until their lips are a breath apart, his eyes are dark but he stays still, watching her, appraising.

“Meet me in the bathroom,” she whispers, her lips softly brush his. She pulls away and stands.

She raises an eyebrow and turns to go. She waits five agonizing minutes in the bathroom before the door pushes open behind her.

The lock clicks shut. They meet in a kiss. It’s wet and frantic, a mess.

He drops to his knees in front of her.

Clarke forgets everything but his name as it tumbles again and again from her lips. Afterwards, he kisses her almost punishingly, biting her lips and letting her taste herself on his tongue.

She unzips his pants and yanks them down onto his thighs. 

He pants into her mouth when she slides her hand into his underwear and wraps around him. Broken gasps and feverish kisses press into her shoulder, her neck, her lips.

She brings him over the edge with her hand, panting dirty things in her ear.

They untangle. They’re both still mostly dressed but his pants are shoved halfway down his thighs and her skirt is rucked up around her waist, her underwear somewhere on the floor behind them. 

He kisses her slowly, drawing her out, making her desperate for his touch despite the satisfaction from her orgasm still lingering in her limbs.

He breaks the kiss but doesn’t go far, fitting his head in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply, “Fuck, Princess,” he groans into her neck, still out of breath. 

“You just did,” Clarke replies, dryly. Bellamy hot breath ruffles her hair as his chest vibrates in a low chuckle.

His nose skims her collarbone as he leans against his arms, caging her in against the wall. He presses soft, open-mouthed kisses up neck to her jaw. 

She didn’t expect it, with Bellamy’s tendency towards one night stands, but after sex he gets cuddly, affectionate. Clarke would have thought he’d bolt as soon as he got his orgasm. But instead he wants to kiss, to wrap his heavy body around her. She doesn’t mind, but that’s not what they are. 

She’s isn’t dating Bellamy Blake. She’s fucking him. And there tends to be a fine line between physicality and feelings. She is not going to cross that line. 

Clarke presses a chaste kiss to Bellamy’s chest over his shirt and slides out from under his arms. She slides her underwear back on, straightens her skirt, and fixes her hair as much as she can. Bellamy’s watching her when she turns around, a look she can’t decipher on his face. 

“You ready to kick that essay’s butt?”

He chuckles. A deep, warm sound. 

They go back out to their table, hair slightly messier, clothes not quite on straight. It’s light, fun, exciting.

She’s enjoying herself and it finally feels like she’s leaving the dark cloud of her past behind her.

Then Wells shows up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(Check out the edit I made for this fic!)](http://lordmxrphy.tumblr.com/post/130319906172/a-kiss-with-a-fist-is-better-than-none-blood)
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> Okay, so I need the truth, what did you guys think? Are you guys happy about Bellamy and Clarke? What did you think of Miller? What do you think is gonna happen with Wells? Let me know your thoughts!!


	4. oh, maybe, you could devastate me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the boy's a hurricane and she's drowning in his storm.

Seeing Bellamy fight is terrible. Beautiful. He’s grace and violence. Immortal—infinite when he fights. An unbridled hurricane. An angel of thunder. 

But it’s the man, soft skin and too-fragile bones, that Clarke patches up afterwards. His skin still breaks. His blood still runs. 

She hates it. Cleaning his cuts, wrapping his bloodied fists in gauze. The man. Playing with fire. The mortal. Playing at being a god. 

She knows that she shouldn’t worry. Bellamy’s good. He wins most fights easily and Octavia’s faith in him never wavers. And yet. Clarke’s heart catches when Bellamy takes a hit. When fist meets face. When blood coats his teeth and bruises mar his skin, painting Bellamy blue, black, and red.

She spent so much of her life wishing to escape violence, only to find herself drowning in blood and battle.

(The worst part is that seeing him fight—darkness, danger, and glory—makes Clarke’s blood pump and her skin sing.)  


* * *

  
They stumble into his apartment after one of his fights. He tastes like iron—like blood. His hands, the same hands that tonight left another man flat on his back, trace her ribcage, slow and soft, making Clarke delirious with want. 

She pushes him against the door, fumbling with the lock behind his back as she traces her tongue across his teeth. He bites her lip and she loses herself in the push and pull of Bellamy’s kiss, caught in the sensation. 

She kisses a path down his neck across his chest, pushing up his shirt and tracing her lips against his abdomen, falling to her knees. 

Bellamy’s gaze is heavy on her. She undoes his belt. Unzips his jeans. 

He’s hard, his tip already slick with precum when she pushes down his boxers, eager to have her mouth on him.

Seeing his cock, big and dark, up close makes her mouth water. She licks her lips. 

She wraps her hand around him, her eyes on Bellamy as she begins move. Bellamy’s head falls back against the door with a thud, his breath stuttering in his chest. 

Clarke licks the the bead of precum off him, Bellamy’s eyes pop open and he groans, dick twitching as he watches her.

She traces a slow line up the underside of his dick, while Bellamy stutters out desperate expletives.

“Please—Fuck—Princess, I need—I need your mouth on me.”

She swirls her tongue around his tip then obliges, her lips wrapping around his cock as her hand pumps him slowly. She takes him as deep in her throat as she can. 

She can feel herself getting wet listening to the noises he’s making. She’s never been this turned on blowing a guy. But hearing Bellamy unravel underneath her fingers, her mouth, sends a bolt of want to her core.

She swallows when he finishes and Bellamy pulls her up and kisses her deeply, uncaring of the taste of his pleasure on her tongue. 

He leads her to the sofa and crawls down her body, licking into her. He makes her tremble, teasing her, taking her to the edge before backing off. When she finally climaxes it’s with his name on her lips, her hand caught in his curls, and his tongue inside her.  


* * *

  
A few days later, when Clarke gets back to her room, she finds Raven and Octavia curled around each other on Raven’s bed, watching a movie on her laptop. 

Clarke’s exhausted, dead on her feet. She just spent four hours at the library, managing to finally finish a paper for her History class. Keeping up with all the work in her classes is taxing, especially when Bellamy keeps providing such tempting distractions. All she wants right now is to curl up in her bed and sleep for a year (or at least 8-9 hours). 

“Fancy seeing you here. Not staying with your boyfriend tonight?” Raven calls by way of greeting when she sees Clarke.

Clarke flips her off, too tired to get into an argument. 

It’s true that she’s spent the past couple nights at Bellamy’s apartment, And yes, both nights she’s slept over. But that’s because she’s been tense and Bellamy provides a good stress relief and afterwards she’d been so exhausted she’d fallen asleep almost immediately after sex. That doesn’t mean they’re dating. 

(She's lucky Bellamy doesn’t seem to mind her staying over.)

She had been hoping Raven wouldn’t give her the second degree about her arrangement with Bellamy. Especially since her only response when Clarke told her she and Bellamy were hooking was: “I knew he was your type,” along with more innuendos than Clarke was totally comfortable with.

But since then Raven’s been giving her shit about her feelings for Bellamy. Or, rather, what Raven suspects her feelings are for Bellamy. 

Luckily, tonight Octavia’s presence stops Raven from making any other comments. 

Clarke has a feeling Octavia’s wary of her arrangement with her brother. Clarke assumes she’s probably worried one of them will screw things up and it will make things awkward for her and Raven. But she hasn’t brought it up so Clarke’s not sure. 

Clarke’s brushing her teeth in the hall bathroom when the door swings open and Octavia comes in.

She leans against the sink next the Clarke. Clarke spits out the toothpaste in her mouth and turns to face her. Serious, steady.

“Okay, I’m going to try to make this as quick and painless as I can for the both of us,” Octavia says in her signature no-nonsense style.

Clarke smiles, she likes that Octavia is so upfront. She always knows where she stands. It’s refreshing.

“I know it doesn’t seem like it sometimes, but Bell has one of the biggest hearts of anyone I know. He tries tries to hide it with big talk, but once he decides you’re one of his people, he’s got your back for life... And you’re one of his people.”

Clarke looks down, fiddling with the rings on her hand.

“Just… be careful. Because if whatever is going on between you two blows up in your faces, Bell’s not going to be able to just walk away. This isn’t one of his fights.” 

Octavia’s eyes harden, “A lot of people have let us—let Bell down. And I really don’t want you to be one of them.”

Clarke meets Octavia’s eyes, “I don’t want to be one of those people either, O,” the words ring truer than she expected, echoing with solemn sincerity.

Octavia nods once then leaves Clarke to heavy thoughts.  


* * *

  
_It’s incredible. A massacre. The other guy doesn’t get one hit in. As soon as his opponent hits the floor, Bellamy turns to meet Clarke’s eyes in the crowd. Finding her like a beacon. His chest heaves, dark skin glinting with sweat in the low light. He looks like a god of war. Indestructible. Breathtaking. She doesn’t remember finding him after, but she remembers her jeans unbuttoned and his hand inside her. Hot and fast and dirty. She presses her mouth to his shoulder in a desperate attempt to muffle her moans while he whispers impossibly dirty things in her ear. He slides his hand carefully out of her underwear. He watches her with dark, wanton eyes as he licks his fingers clean. Her breath catches in her throat. He grabs a condom from his back pocket, rolling it on quickly. Beads of sweat trace lines down his chest as he pushes into her, filling her. She bites his shoulder when she comes. The faint indent of teeth red against his tan shoulder._  
  
  
Clarke’s still high on adrenaline when she gets back to her dorm and notices a figure lurking in the shadows beside her building. She steps forward, clutching her keys like a weapon, wary. Wells steps into the light of the street lamp. Her heart stops.  


* * *

  
“It’s good to see you, Clarke.”

“What are you doing here?” she spits the words. Wells’ flinches.

“Your mom is worried about you. _I’m_ worried about you. I haven’t heard from you in months. You haven’t returned a single one of my calls or emails. This was the only way to reach you,” his voice cracks.

“And it didn’t occur to you that maybe I didn’t _want_ to talk to you.”

“Clarke, I don’t understand why—”

“I can’t do it. I can’t be a part of that life anymore. And your dad—”

“I’m not my father. You know better than anyone not to judge someone for who their parents are.”

She forces her voice to remain harsh, unforgiving, “Why are you here, Wells?” 

This time he relents.

He looks at the ground, she knows what’s coming before he says the words, “Abby wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“What, now she cares?! Now she’s worried?! Where was all this a year ago—six months ago?!”

“Clarke, I know you’re mad—”

“Mad? Mad?! I think I passed mad a long time ago.”

“She’s still your mom, Clarke,” he says the words quietly.

A dark coil wraps around her heart, “Only in the literal sense," she sighs, “You should go home, Wells.”

“That wasn’t everything,” he clears his throat, staring at his feet, “Your mom said that if you didn’t start talking to her, start letting her in again, she’s going to come down here herself.”

Her heart drops out her stomach. She feels sick. Abby can’t. She wouldn’t. 

“Clarke, I can help, if you let me talk to her—”

“You’ll what?! What could you possibly do?! Oh god, she’s going to ruin everything. I thought—I thought I was finally done. I thought that if I got far enough away…” she trails off. Panic takes her hand and starts to run. Desperation chokes her. Angry tears cloud her vision.

“Clarke, please—” Wells' footsteps approach her. She takes a step back. 

“Don’t. Please. Just don’t.”

She turns, walking away as quickly as she can, knees weak, her hands clutched in fists so they won’t shake. 

Wells doesn’t follow her; he just calls out, his words hitting her back.

“Clarke, you can’t run from this forever.”

Wind stings her wet cheeks, bitter and cold with the promise of winter it steals her words as she replies, but it doesn’t really matter if he hears her.

“I can try.”  


* * *

  
She goes the only place she can think of. 

She finds herself at Bellamy’s door. Disheveled. Distraught.

He’s in his pajamas: black boxer-briefs and a rumpled shirt, ratty and soft, full of holes.

He doesn’t ask if she’s okay, he knows she’s not. Maybe he sees something in her eyes—the remnants of tears now dry. He lets her in and she stands in his apartment, feeling lost and out of place.

“What happened?” 

“Nothing. I’m fi—”

“Clarke,” her name sounds harsh, he doesn’t use his nickname for her and it stings, “I know you’re not fine. You don’t have to tell me what happened, but don’t lie to me.”

“I just…I can’t talk about it right now,” the words stagger out, hobbled by the lump in her throat.

He softens, “Okay.”

“Can I stay here tonight?”

His brow furrows, “Of course you can, Princess,” the nickname slips out tender and sweet. 

Clarke swallows back bile. (It’s just one night.)

She’s grateful when they get into bed and he doesn’t try anything. They lie next to each other until sleep comes and relieves her from her thoughts.  


* * *

  
The next morning, she wakes with Bellamy’s arms around her. 

“Morning,” his voice is rough with sleep.

“G’morning,” her brain feels slow, dregs of sleep cling to her consciousness.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

Everything rushes back. Last night. Wells. Her mom. 

Clarke looks away, unable to maintain eye contact.

“It’s not a big deal,” his arms tense, she knows he doesn’t believe her, “Sorry for barging in like I did last night. I didn’t know where else to go.”

He brushes his thumb against her cheek, “It’s fine, Clarke. Really.”

She can’t bear to look him in the eye, but she leans forward and kisses him. Messy and full of want. She slides her tongue in his mouth, he opens for her, letting her take the lead. 

She straddles him, grinding down as she pulls his bottom lip between her teeth. She whispers against his lips that she wants him to fuck her.

He grabs a condom from the dresser. On top of her in a moment. A welcome, intoxicating weight.

He kisses her again then pulls back, leaning his forehead against hers, “You sure?”

She breathes out a yes, tugging him back down.

After, their chests heave as they lie in a tangled mess. Entwined limbs and naked skin. Her lips press against his shoulder. Over a scattering of freckles. 

He whispers against her hair, voice almost too soft to make out the words. She doesn’t know if he says the words for her or for himself.

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

Her eyes fall closed, her heart falls into her stomach.

Bellamy doesn’t wait for a reply, kissing her cheek and getting out of bed.

She waits until he’s in the shower. Then she throws on her clothes and is out the door between one breath and the next.

She turns off her phone and boards a bus. Desperate to get lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like that chapter warranted a rating change. What do you guys think so far? Did you enjoy the chapter? Any predictions or requests for the next chapters? 
> 
> (*whispers* I'm planning to have more Wells and Miller in the next chapter, so you have that to look forward to, if you're as big of fan of those two as I am <3)
> 
> Please leave me a comment or send me a message on tumblr letting me know what you thought!!
> 
> (chapter title from Hurricane by Halsey)


	5. you do such damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how can you love like this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoy! Let me know in the comments what you thought.
> 
> (chapter title from What Kind of Man by Florence and the Machine but I'm using the lyric to refer to Clarke because I do what I want)

In the end it’s Wells who finds her. Hours later. 

She’s staring at a painting—a mix of color and shadow—of emotion and art. It’s beautiful. And sad. A lot of things in her life seem that way lately.

“It’s good to know you haven’t changed too much. I still know where to find you when you’re upset,” his voice is familiar. Fond. He stops a few steps behind her, giving her space if she needs it.

(She’s missed him. More than she realized.) 

Clarke hums, “I’ve always had a thing for art museums, haven’t I?” she turns to face him, “You think college has changed me?” 

He nods. “You’re letting yourself feel things now. Back home you were so detached. It was scary seeing you cut yourself off from your own feelings like that. At least now you’re yelling. Angry is a whole hell of a lot better than numb and distant.”

A lump in her throat. Thick with words yet unsaid. 

“I’m sorry, Wells. For the other night. For not calling. For everything.”

He walks up to her carefully, like he’s afraid she’s going to bolt again. She doesn’t. 

“You don’t have to apologize. There’s nothing to forgive.”

His hand is large and dry and warm, his fingers closing around her clammy palm. She leans her forehead against his shoulder. Solid. Safe. 

He was right. She can’t run forever.

**

They sit on a bench in the museum until the light outside fades to black, talking about anything and everything. About her classes. About Raven. About Bellamy—who fights like he has nothing to lose. Who’s grit and grime and crusted blood. Who’s a kind man beneath armor made of sharp edges and bruised knuckles. Who’s somehow become one of her closest friends. Who she’s terrified she might have lost. 

Wells tells her about his life back home. He still lives in California, out of loyalty, out of some twisted sense of duty. He’s a sophomore at the local college and spends his free time working for his dad. He hates it. He’s like Clarke, neither one of them were cut out for the life their parents wanted for them. 

Wells drives her back to her dorm room in the car he’s renting. He parks in a spot in front of her building and gets out to walk her to the door.

“I’m not going to break, you know.” 

“I know, but sometimes it’s nice knowing you have someone,” he pauses, “You don’t have to deal with everything alone, Clarke.”

She twists the silver ring on her middle finger. It’s thick, heavy, adorned with Black. 

“It still—I hate that I’m still not over it. I keep thinking I’m past it, that I’m better. But then I’ll see a girl who looks like her on the street or hear a song and it throws me back to a year ago. To watching her leave and feeling totally and completely worthless.  
“I just want to feel normal,” her voice breaks on the last word. Wells pulls her into his arms, letting Clarke bury her face against his chest. 

Guilt gnaws at her fingers curled in the soft fabric of Wells’ coat. She feels sick with it. Wells has always been there for her. Always supported her no matter what. All her life. He’s never abandoned her. Even when she ignored his calls. Even when she lashed out. He stayed. She wouldn’t have survived last year without him, and here he is again: a solid, easy presence keeping her on her feet. Tethering her to the ground so she doesn’t float away.

They stand there for a while. When Clarke pulls back, there are tear stains on Wells’ shirt. 

She wraps her pinky around his like they used to when they were kids, “Thanks—thank you for everything, Wells.”

He smiles, “Anytime.” 

And what blows her mind…is that he means it.

**

Raven’s pacing in their room when she gets back. She startles when Clarke opens the door, hand flying to her chest. She rushes forward, pulling Clarke into a tight hug before letting go and proceeding to yell at her.

“Where have you been?! What the fuck were you thinking?! You can’t just fucking disappear like that, Griffin.” 

She doesn’t give Clarke a chance to answer, her words chasing each other past her lips, “I’ve been worried sick. Bellamy was a mess this morning when he called me. He been going out of his mind with worry. All he kept saying was ‘I fucked up. She’s gone. I fucked up’. What the hell happened, Griffin?!”

“I’m sorry, Raven. I just—I panicked, okay? I was upset—Wells showed up—with veiled threats from my mother, so I spent the night at Bellamy’s and then…and then this morning, Bellamy… Bellamy told me he was falling in love with me.”

“He said he’s falling in love with you?” Raven asks, her words barely above a whisper. Her eyes are deep with understanding.

Clarke nods, heart heavy, “The last time someone—” she breaks off, “Hearing Bellamy say those words felt like getting run over. I couldn’t be there. So I left. I know I reacted badly, but I didn’t think, I just left.”

“You can’t—Clarke, you can’t run away like that. If you panic, or need to a break, please just call me so I know where you are.” 

Clarke nods, and Raven goes on, “But babe, Bellamy, Bellamy isn’t Lexa.” Her voice is soft, careful.

“I know that—I do. But it—I panicked and all I could think of was getting as far away as I could,” Bile rises in her throat, “I fucked up.”

Raven takes her hand, a wordless comfort, she squeezes, “You don’t know that. Bellamy’s strong, he can take a hit. Just…talk to him. Don’t—don’t shut him out.”

**

She calls Bellamy that night but he doesn’t answer. She leaves an apology on his voicemail then she sends him a text with the same message, just in case.

The next morning, he still hasn’t replied so she goes over to see him. 

But he’s not as his apartment when she knocks on his door. She calls his phone again; this time it goes straight to voicemail. She sits in the hallway, unsure of what to do.

Miller and another boy come bustling up the stairs, loud and laughing, carrying bags of groceries.

“How is it I always end up with the heavy bag?” complains the guy with Miller. He’s slim, pale skin and brown hair that hangs in eyes ringed with dark circles. 

“You don’t, Murphy.” Miller replies with a wry smile, “It’s just that for you every bag is the heavy bag.”

His friend’s protests cut off when he spots Clarke sitting in the hallway. 

When Miller sees her, he sets his bag down immediately, “Hey, you okay?” he crouches beside her.

She and Miller fell into friendship easily. They’re similar in a lot of ways: both serious, with a tendency to carry their feelings like a weight, heavy on their backs. 

She can’t bring herself to lie to Miller. (It’s time she start being honest with herself too.)

“Not really.” 

Miller offers his hand and pulls her up. He turns to Murphy who’s a few steps away, looking slightly uncomfortable. Clarke can’t tell if it’s from the heaviness of the air or the weight of the paper bag in his arms.

Once Miller unlocks their door, Murphy rushes inside, setting the bag down immediately and leaning against the counter dramatically.

“Clarke, this is my roommate, Murphy.” 

“Come on in, Clarke,” Murphy calls as he grabs a soda from the fridge before plopping down on the sofa.

“Oh, you don’t have to…” she trails off at the look Miller gives her. She smiles weakly and follows him into the kitchen to help unpack the groceries. It’s mostly beer, soda, and chips, but there’s some cereal and, surprisingly, pumpkin spice creamer. 

She glances at Miller with a barely concealed grin. 

He glares, “Don’t judge. It’s delicious.”

Clarke’s grin widens, “Don’t worry. No judgment here.”

“I’m judging you,” Murphy calls from the sofa. Miller just snorts.

After they get the groceries put away, Miller pulls out two cokes and hands her one. 

“So Bellamy came by yesterday looking for you. He, uh, he was pretty upset. I’ve never seen him that torn up. I know it’s not my business, but is everything okay?”

“Not really,” she pauses, deciding how much to share, “I, um, kind of freaked out yesterday. My last relationship ended badly. Really badly,” she shakes her head, “I came here to start fresh, not to get tied down again.”

Last time, the ropes became a noose. 

“I thought—I thought Bellamy and I were on the same page…” she takes a deep breath, “I just—I need to talk to him.”

“Well, you can wait here for Bellamy to get back. Murphy and I are in the middle of marathon-ing The Office. I have to warn you though, Murphy gets really invested in Jim and Pam. It’s actually pretty pathetic.”

His eyes are teasing, it’s easy for Clarke to return his smile.

**

Bellamy doesn’t get back until that afternoon. His arrival announced with the slam of his door. 

Miller gives her an encouraging look when she gets up. 

Outside his door, Clarke takes a deep breath before knocking. 

“Miller, I’m not—” he stops when he sees her. His eyes get dark, clouding with anger, palpable and heavy. 

He smells like death. Smoke and alcohol permeate his clothes. Clarke can taste cigarette ash from a few feet away. 

“What do you want?” he spits the words like an insult.

“I—I was hoping we could talk. About yesterday.”

He smiles. Too many teeth. Distorted and ugly. Cruel. She’s never seen him like this, “There isn’t anything to talk about. We were fucking. Now we’re not. Seems pretty straight forward to me.”

“I’m sorry for running out, I should have—God, I don’t even know what I should have done. You’re one of my best friends and—” 

“Stop.” His voice is cold, hard. 

“Look, Bellamy, I get that you’re angry”—he scoffs—“But please don’t push me away.”

“Push you away? How could I possibly push you away when you never even let me get close to you at all?!” His words are razor blades, running across her skin. She breaks, she bleeds.

Words die on her tongue.

“That’s what I thought. I’ll see you around, Clarke.” The door slams in her face.

  


* * *

  


The following week the only time she’s sees him is in class.

It’s torture. 

He sits by the door, face empty of emotion, taking notes and staring straight ahead. He doesn’t even glance her way, but Clarke’s eyes keep sliding back to him, lingering on his hair, his hands. He’s up from his seat and out the class before the professor even finishes wrapping up his lecture. 

Octavia stops coming by the dorm. It’s awkward, Clarke feels terrible for cluttering Raven’s life with her junk. 

One night she mentions it to Raven. 

“You’re my best friend, Griffin. Your junk is my junk. That’s what friends do. They help shoulder the load.”

Clarke starts spending most of her time with Wells. He’s on his fall semester break and it’s nice having him around, getting to catch up. It’s surprisingly easy. Uncomplicated. He reads while she studies and they spend hours watching Netflix on her laptop. 

Raven usually joins them when she gets back to the room if she doesn’t have much homework. 

They sit pressed together, backs against the wall, feet dangling over the side of Clarke’s bed. Raven and Wells argue over what to watch, Wells favors historical dramas while Raven just wants to see explosions. Clarke can’t help but smile, caught in the middle, one best friend on either side, listening to their ridiculous arguments before they eventually settle on How to Get Away with Murder yet again. 

Her friends have always been able to pull her up for air, to keep her from drowning in the dark ocean of her own thoughts. 

On Friday she finds out Bellamy has a fight at Millington. 

It’s a terrible decision, but she decides to go. 

She doesn’t tell Raven she’s going to the fight, but she brings Wells as a safety net. Unwilling to face the crowds alone. 

Rows of sweaty bodies stand between Clarke and the fight ring. When Anya introduces the fighters she struggles to see over the tops of the heads in front of her. She recognizes the broad muscle of Bellamy’s shoulders.

The fight starts and too soon the crowd is cheering for first blood. She can tell something is off immediately. They chant the wrong name. Fear coils in the pit of her stomach. Yells permeate the air. Loud. Mean. 

Beside her, Wells’ phone lights up with a call. He answers, turning away, one hand covering his ear so he can hear. 

Another cry rings through the crowd. She’s blind to the events unfolding, heads and shoulders blocking her line of sight. She can’t take it; she has to see him. Has to know he’s okay. Clarke pushes her way to the front, using elbows and ducking under arms to get past the sticky college students, stinking of booze. 

When she makes it to the edge of the circle, Bellamy’s on his hands and knees, his breathing heavy and labored.

His eyes meet hers, a bruise darkens his left eye and blood drips from his lips and down his chin. His gaze meets her. Cold. He spits red then struggles to his feet to face his opponent. 

It’s a knife in the gut, the way he looks at her. Like she’s a stranger. Like she’s nothing to him. She stumbles backward through the crowd. 

Wells catches her arm. His face is grave, crumpled with worry and anger. Something’s wrong. 

He leans close so she can hear, “I have to tell you something—”

“Clarke?” A voice behind her calls her name, and she turns, Wells’ warning falling on deaf ears.

She comes face to face with Lexa. 

The world crashes around her. Her lungs strangle her breath. 

She looks the same: long hair, swept across her shoulder; dark, impeccable makeup framing her eyes. She’s the same. And the look in her eyes as she steps towards Clarke is something she’s seen a hundred times.

Clarke takes a step back. 

“Clarke, it’s good to see you. Do you have a moment? I’d like to talk.”

The heat and sound of the people around them feel oppressive. Too close, too loud, too crowded.

“I have nothing to say to you,” her voice is hard steel. 

Lexa frowns, “You’re surprised to see me,” Lexa’s eyes drift over Clarke’s shoulder, “I’ll speak to you some other time.” 

She’s gone as quickly as she appeared. Clarke crumples.

Her vision goes blurry; spots erupt before her eyes. Everything’s moving too fast and too slow all at once. The crowd roars, but the sound is faint. Far away. The air feels like a weight, pushing her down down down.

Wells’ is in front of her. He’s saying something. She watches the words exit his mouth, but they don’t reach her ears. 

Her surroundings register in bits and pieces. Scattered. Fragmented.

A door. 

A cold, dark alleyway. Empty. 

Boxes. Piled up and abandoned against the opposite wall.

Clarke leans against an icy brick wall. The air cools her hot skin. She struggles to breathe air into her lungs, her body suffocating itself. 

Rough bricks scrape her back as she curls into herself. She lands on the ground, face tucked into her bent knees. 

Wells crouches in front of her, taking one of her hands gently. 

She’s underwater. Walls of liquid separate her from reality. 

Miles away she hears the alley door bang open followed by heavy foot-falls. 

The world sways. Only Wells’ hands are in focus. 

She hears Wells’ voice, but can’t make out the words. He sounds angry. 

“I’m sorry, don’t yell,” she whispers. 

A warm hand brushes her hair back from her face.

Another voice. This one smooth and deep as the ocean.

“Bellamy,” she murmurs. 

“What was that, Princess?” a thumb brushes her cheek, tender.

“I miss you,” her words crack down the middle.

“I’m right here, Princess, I’m right here.”

A hand guides her chin. She stares blankly, unseeing. Then warm brown eyes come into focus. Steadying. Grounding.

“But I already lost you. She… She was right. I’m broken. Who would want want to love someone broken?”

She can feel him, warm at her side. Soft lips press against her temple.

“I don’t want you to break too,” a breathless confession. One that’s been poisoning her heart for months. 

Reality slips out of focus. Voices speak, but she can’t make out the words. They slip like sand through her fingers. She bites her lip, hard enough to draw blood. The pain clears her head.

Slowly, the world returns. Blink by blink, like rubbing smudged glass. 

She starts to shiver, her body finally registering the winter air. The ground is hard and cold beneath her, she’s curled around a warm body, tattooed arms encircle her.

Wells is still gripping her right hand, even as he and Bellamy glare at each other over her head, dark and angry. Her nail-beds are dark with blood, red half-moon indents mark her palms, evidence of the damage she unwittingly did. 

“Shit,” her hoarse voice cuts through the tension, startling, both men. Bellamy’s arms loosen, but don’t let go. 

Wells voice is soft and careful, “How do you feel?”

“Awful,” she pulls away from both men, pushing her hair, damp with sweat, back from her face. 

She feels Bellamy tense beside her. She looks at him. A black eye stains his face along with a blue bruise blooming across his cheek bone. Dried blood flakes on his chin and around his nose.

Wells’ words pull her attention back to him, “Clarke, I’m so sorry, I had no idea.”

Bellamy’s eyes transform to dark clouds, “Did he do something to you?!” his voice drums with thunder.

“No, Bellamy, no. It’s not his fault.” She grabs his hand, curled in a fist by his side.

Questions stain Bellamy’s face. It feels like the first time he’s really looked at her since the morning she ran away. 

She looks at Wells. He nods, understanding her wordlessly. She and Bellamy need to talk. Alone. The door creaks loudly as Wells leaves them in the alley. 

She stares at her hands, the power of his gaze too much, “I shouldn’t have disappeared that morning.”

He looks away, jaw clenching, “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. I should explain.”

“I don’t need to hear it,” he snaps. He looks at her, eyes loaded guns aimed at the enemy, “I saw you. That afternoon. I was going to stop by your place, see if Raven had heard anything, but then I saw you. With him. I get it, I was a distraction. A good fuck. Irrelevant, now that your rich boyfriend is here.” 

She scrambles her words, rushing to clear the air, “Oh god, Bellamy. No, no, I never—Wells and I aren’t dating. We grew up together, he’s like my brother.”

His frown deepens, “Then why haven’t you ever mentioned him?” 

“I—I was trying to leave behind who I was in California. And I convinced myself that Wells was part of—part of a life I no longer wanted. I was wrong. And it turns out running from my problems isn’t actually a solution.” 

“Clarke, I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep listening to you talk in circles. You have to decide what you want,” his words dig like nails into her skin. 

“Let me know when you do,” he pushes himself up from the wall.

She can’t let him walk away.

“You’re right,” she calls, he stops, back still facing her, “You’re right, I haven’t been fair,” she wills her heart to steady, “You should know… you deserve to hear everything.” 

She crosses her arms in front of her, shivering in the harsh cold. 

She’s broken but Bellamy’s already cut himself on her shards. He needs to hear the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... what did you think? Any predictions about Lexa? How do you feel about Wells now that you've seen more?
> 
> Tell me what you guys liked and what you'd like to see more of!! I love hearing from you guys, and it really does shape how I work the story.


	6. in the shadow of your heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.  
> -F. Scott Fitzgerald, _The Great Gatsby_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the truth comes out. 
> 
> I really hope you guys enjoy this chapter, it was one of the harder ones to write but I hope it works! Please let me know your thoughts and if you're excited for the next one!
> 
> (chapter title from cosmic love by florence and the machine)

They face each other from opposite ends of the ratty couch in Bellamy’s apartment. The kitchen light casts shadows into the living room, still shrouded in night. Blood crusts around Bellamy’s face. She wants to wipe it clean, to wash the traces of battle from his skin, but instead twists her fingers in the overlong sleeves of sweatshirt he tossed her when they walked in. It’s too big, hanging on her frame like a dress, but it’s exactly what she needs. Warm and comforting. It even smells like him. 

She texted Wells on the drive over, letting him know she was okay and that she would talk to him tomorrow. The quiet in the car had felt like a weight. Tension cut into slices by the ticks of the turn signal and the distant sounds of the world outside, muted through the windows closed against the cold.

There’s a foot of space between their knees. Clarke longs to reach for him. To hold his hand, to tuck her face into his shoulder, to pull him close… but she can’t and she won’t. It’s not fair. To him. To her. He deserves more than what she’s given him.

Silence stretches out between them. A taught cord, ready to snap.

She stares at her hands as she starts speaking, not brave enough to face what she might find in Bellamy’s eyes.

“I’ve known Wells all my life. Our families are close. Our parents…I guess you could say they’re business associates… Both our families are well off. Actually, that’s an understatement. They’re obscenely rich. Your nickname for me is a lot more fitting than you realized,” she lets out a huff of breath—a thin mockery of a laugh. Bellamy’s shoulders stiffen. 

“In California, the Griffins—my mom’s side of the family—are practically royalty,” she runs a hand through her hair, doubt and fear battling it out beneath her skin. “But that was never the life I wanted… I grew up around crime and sin, around people only motivated by all-consuming greed. I always felt out of place, like a stranger in my own life.”

“Why were you so upset the night Wells showed up?” Bellamy asks in a low voice barely above a whisper. 

“I was angry at Wells. For staying in California. For choosing to remain in the world that had burned me. It felt like he was choosing those people over me. I wasn’t being fair. He and his dad have always been close. He couldn’t just cut ties and leave like I did. But Wells is too good for that world. I think that’s part of the reason he came here. I think he wanted to see what life was like away from it all.”

He’s always stood out, a bright light among greedy, power-hungry men and women who fool themselves into ignoring their evils by surrounding themselves with opulence and grandeur.

She and Wells grew up prince and princess of a kingdom of sin, only shrouded from the darkness by their grasp on each other. Clarke’s still not entirely sure how she stayed afloat all those years. All she knows is that Wells was the first person who made her feel loved for who she was, without any expectations or ulterior motives.

“Where we lived… My whole life I grew up surrounded by excess. Around people who had everything but never enough. Who were always hoping for the next break, looking to score big time. There was always more... At least that’s what my family and their friends all seemed to believe.  
“That greed, that insatiability, it brings out the ugliness in people…When I was five, my mother smacked me for playing in her office—for spilling paint on her business accounts. I knew early on that the last thing I wanted was to be like my parents,” she picks at her nails, all her attention on Bellamy, on the stiff way he holds himself. 

She forces herself to keep going, “That became especially true when their marriage fell apart." _Ruined by lust, by greed, by cruelty_ —"I was ten when I walked in on my mom kissing another man. I realized that day that she didn’t love my dad. That I didn’t even know what love was. My mom has always been the type of woman who uses love like a tool to get what she wants.” Like a knife against open throats. 

“She used it against me. She used it against my dad…” she twists the heavy ring on her middle finger, the motion almost hypnotic in its repetition. 

“I was a sophomore in high school when my parents finally separated. My dad…my dad took it a lot harder than my mom did. I think he genuinely always loved her. I’m not sure if she ever cared, but I have to believe that at some point—” When her mother was young, before her bones hardened to cement. “—she at least cared for him… After the divorce my dad started gambling. He was bored. Sad. Looking for a thrill. He probably thought poker was safer than drugs,” she shakes her head, frowning. “He got mixed up with some really bad men… started accumulating debts he couldn’t pay,” Clarke takes a deep breath, steadying her breath and pushing forward. 

“I was living with my mom—she got full custody in the divorce. I think my dad didn’t want me to see how badly he was doing…he was—he was drinking a lot. Losing money. Depressed more than anything else… I think he felt alone. I wish that I had—” she stays her tongue, already acquainted with the dark path her mind is threatening to lead her down. She stares at Bellamy’s scuffed hands. At the raw cuts across his knuckles, at the hands of a man equally capable of dreaming and destruction. The sight grounds her. She clutches her own hands in her lap to keep herself from reaching out. From hurting him any more than she already has.

“One day in the spring of my junior year, my dad showed up at our house in the middle of the night. I remember sitting in the hallway, listening to them in my mom’s study through the closed, locked door. My dad was desperate. He was out of time—out of money. He couldn’t pay his debts. He said the guys in charge didn’t believe he couldn’t come up with the money—it was a lot of money. The men knew about his connection to my mom’s family and they were threatening him—threatening me—if he didn’t pay up. He begged my mom to help him. Pleaded. Cried. Nothing swayed her. I can still hear her voice—cold—when she told him to get out.” 

The thick silver ring on her finger—her father’s—acts as a morbid reminder. Of the childish innocence that died in her that year. “They found his body a week later. On the side of a road.” _Bloody. Broken._ “Beaten to death—he died from internal bleeding,” her voice cracks, the flow of words breaking on the crest of a wave of emotion. 

Bellamy reaches for her, his fingers warm and dry against her cold, clammy palm. She knows she should pull away. That she’s damaged. That Bellamy deserves more than she can give. 

But she’s weak. So she lets him pull her into him. His frame solid against her side. She basks in the intoxicating relief of letting him hold her up, of not having to spend all her energy on staying upright.

“Growing up, I was always close with my dad. He married into the wealth and excess of my mom’s family. He understood how much I hated it all and would let me hide away in my room during my mom’s dinner parties. My dad wasn’t perfect, but every so often he would pull me out of school and take me on adventures. Just because. We would go to the zoo and wander around all day, eating ice cream and watching the pandas. He wasn’t perfect, but those days…those days were pretty damn close,” she pauses memory clouding her eyes with tears, before she blinks her way back to the present moment.

“I think he always felt like an outsider. Or maybe I was just projecting. But I always felt like we shared something. The two black sheep of the family. Him, because he didn’t really belong. Me, because I didn’t want to.  
“His death hit me really hard. But I pushed down the hurt, focused on school. On work. On anything but the fact that my dad was gone." _Buried in the ground_ … "I avoided my mother and her functions like the plague. I was—I’m still so angry at her. She didn’t care. She didn’t do anything. If she had just—” Clarke cuts off herself off, pulling herself away from the familiar ledge. Dwelling on ‘what ifs’ never served anyone.

“A couple of months after my dad’s death, my mother had a big gala event. My attendance wasn’t optional… That’s when I met Lexa.”

Bellamy seems to sense the change in her, his hands and body stilling. Clarke’s stomach ties itself in knots as she sits up, pulling away from him. She brings her feet up to the couch, wrapping her arms around her legs, resting her chin against her knee. She presses forward, beating on. _Boats against the current, borne ceaselessly into the past._

“Lexa was older, beautiful. She swept me up. Made me feel powerful. Her family came from old money," _She used her status and power like a gun. She tore through people and parties like a commander at war._ "I got sucked into her life. Her world, it felt like a dream. It distracted me from the nightmare of my reality. Lexa was the girl at a party everyone wanted to look at. She was the kind of powerful that made people fall to their knees in front of her… And she picked me,” she grits her teeth against the rush of images that threaten to drag her under.

“With me she wasn’t just this hard, cold party girl, living each day like she didn’t want to see the next… With me she was soft. Sweet. It made me feel special that I saw this part of her no one else was privy to.  
“I fell in love with her. Head over heels. I didn’t care that she hated my friends, that she couldn’t stand when I mentioned Wells or Raven, that she insisted I focus on _her and only her._  
“I didn’t care. I loved her. So I pulled away from my friends, I let my life fall by the wayside. To see her. To be with her,” Clarke swallows back bile at the memory—a dagger of disgust and self-hatred pulsing behind her eyes.

“And for a while it was fine. I thought I was happy. She made me forget my tragic life… But then things started to change… She would get into a fight with her parents or she’d see me talking to Wells… and she’d pull away. Barely saying a word to me for days.  
“Nothing I did was ever enough. Where she was sweet she became volatile. Cold and distant one moment, affectionate the next. Vulnerability turned to jealousy. To insecurity. She would tell me that she didn’t believe I loved her, that I was committed to her. Even after I’d made her my whole life.  
"Then, one night, during a fight, she said that if I really loved her I would come ‘all the way’ out of the closet. She said my bisexuality was a cop-out. That night, I had one of the worst panic attacks of my life. I felt powerless. Worthless. And she left me there. Curled up alone in my bedroom.” 

She can’t bear to look Bellamy in the eye, afraid to see the pity or sadness or nothing she might find there. 

“The next day she was at my door, holding ice cream and my favorite movie. She was so apologetic. She said she didn’t mean anything she said. That she had just been mad. I believed her. Things got better. She was loving—warm. I felt whole again.  
“I thought I was happy. I thought…I didn’t know that what she was doing was wrong. That it was—that it was abusive.”

Tears trace down her cheeks. Bellamy reaches for her, pulling her back to him. He tucks his face into her hair, not saying a word. Somehow understanding that she needs to speak. To let go of all the feeling she’s bottled up for months. The flow of words from her mouth doesn't pause. A dam has opened she's too weak to contain.

“I loved her, she helped me grieve after what happened to my dad. How could that be wrong? Then the fall of my senior year… She picked a fight. It was terrible. She brought up every good moment and turned it into something ugly. It was one of the worst nights of my life.  
"The next day she was gone. I had to find out from her roommate that she had gotten an internship at a fashion magazine in France. And that was it…After she left, I didn’t handle things well. I was miserable—depressed. I did what Lexa had always done…I detached. She always said emotions made people weak so I stopped letting myself feel things,” she grits her teeth, “My mom…I don’t even think she noticed what was going on. It was only because of Wells and Raven, that I managed to land on my feet. They never gave up on me. Even when I was with Lexa, they never let me pull away completely. They helped me make it through senior year in one piece. They’re my family. More than my mom, more than any blood relative I have left, Raven and Wells are my people.”

Bellamy’s lips press against her forehead. _You’re my people, too_ , she thinks, still too much of a coward to say the words aloud. Instead she curls into him. Neither one of them speaks for a long time.

Finally, Bellamy clears his throat, “So, the other day when I said I was…”

She exhales a shaky breath, “It terrified me that I had let someone get that close again. I’m—I’m still broken and you deserve—”

“Clarke, you’re not broken. I don’t know what Lexa said to make you believe that, but it’s not true. You can be a pain in the ass, and trying to get to know you was about as easy as tearing glass, but you’re not broken. You’re smart and gorgeous and funny. This past week, I was miserable without you. I don’t care what you think I deserve. You’re my best friend. I’m picking you. And as long as you want me around, I’ll be here.”

At that she finally looks at him. His eyes are soft and open and earnest. He brushes a lock of hair back from her forehead, fingers skimming her forehead gently. The touch is soft and hesitant, like he’s afraid she’ll run. She wants to kiss him; to reassure him she’s not going anywhere. That all she wants is to stay buried in his arms, shrouded from the world, forever. But her nerves devour her courage and fill her with doubt.

So she just whispers, “You’re my best friend, too, Bell.” 

She tucks her head into the nook of his shoulder and wraps him in a hug. He hisses when her hand brushes against his right side. She pulls back immediately.

"You're hurt."

"I'm fine.”

"No, you're not,” she pulls up his shirt before he can stop her, revealing a large, black bruise. Her breath catches at the sight.

"Bellamy… Why didn't you say something?"

"You were in pain."

She looks at him sharply, "Don't ever sacrifice your comfort for mine."

"I can't make that promise, Princess."

She sighs, "Will you, at least, let me check it out?"

"It's fine, really, just a few bruised ribs. You should see the other guy."

"Bellamy…”

He exhales heavily but relents, “Fine.”

She stands up and moves to his other side as he straightens on the couch. Bellamy keeps his cool while she checks the spot, only a few hisses escaping between clenched teeth.

After she’s done, Clarke brings him a glass of water and some pain medicine which he reluctantly takes. When she sits down on his good side he immediately pulls her back in. She bites back a smile. 

“What happened?” she asks as Bellamy’s brings her legs across his lap.

“Hmm?”

“At the fight. When I got there you were losing, what happened?"

“Why was I losing or how did I win?”

“Both.”

“Well, I was losing because I was distracted and couldn't concentrate on the fight, and then I saw you,” he eyes lose their focus, lost in thought, “One moment you were there and the next you had disappeared. A minute later, I heard someone call your name and looked over and saw you. I—I’d never seen you look like that. You looked…small. And seeing you like that… It terrified me,” he clears his throat, “The details are blurry. I wanted to forfeit the fight, but Anya doesn't let that happen, ever. All I remember thinking is that I had to get to you. So I ended the fight the only way I knew how: by winning. I got away as soon as I could and traced you to that alleyway and well… you know the rest.”

“You didn't have to do that. You didn't have to come after me,” she says, eyebrows puckered in a frown.

“Don't you get it yet, Princess? I’d follow you to hell and back if you asked,” his voice is gruff, but his eyes shine with truth of his words.

She stares at him, speechless. After a moment, she leans forward and presses a kiss against his cheek.

It’s not long before dawn spills through the window. Clarke leans heavily against Bellamy, exhausted from a night of no sleep—from the rollercoaster ride of emotions. But mostly from the effort she hadn't realized it had been taking to hold the weight of her secrets. 

But. In the soft light of morning, with Bellamy's reassuring presence at her side, she finally lets the burden drop. It ebbs away with time’s current, seconds carrying it from the present moment downriver into the past. 

Bellamy pulls her further into his body, mouth against her forehead, warm breath calming her heart of its worries. She turns her face into him, mouth against his collarbone—a whisper of a kiss touching the bare skin above his shirt collar. She curls around him. Too tired to worry about right or wrong or what it all means. 

She closes her eyes and fades into sleep. Oblivious to the shortening of Bellamy’s breath or the way he looks at her—eyes full of quiet longing as they trace her face, relaxed in sleep, pink lips parting slightly as her breaths become slow and shallow. His fingers curl into the sweatshirt bunched around her waist, wishing they could grasp her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you guys think? Do you have any predictions for what will happen next? 
> 
> Let me know what you want to see...do you want more fluffy scenes? more smutty ones? more fight scenes? do you want to know Bellamy's backstory? do you not care and just want more?
> 
> I have a lot planned, but depending on what you guys tell me I'll give you certain things sooner. Your feedback means a lot, so let me know!!


	7. nothing is perfect but your imperfections are quaint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She might be broken, but in the bright light of morning, she lets herself believe that maybe—maybe—her pieces are cracked in a way that makes them fit with his._
> 
> (an updated version of the newest chapter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry guys, but as I was writing chapter 8, I realized I really wasn't happy with this one, so I'm reposting it. It's fairly similarly, but I think it reads better and there are a few discrepancies I fixed.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left a comment on the other chapter, you are all lovely and it pains me that I had to delete the kind things you wrote. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as you did the other one!
> 
> (chapter title from bloodsport by Raleigh Ritchie)

She wakes up wrapped around Bellamy. Their legs are tangled together on the couch where they fell asleep. 

His dark hair is a tangle of curls, sticking up on all sides, impossible to contain. He looks soft in sleep, his face naked of the war-torn armor he wears while he’s awake. 

Bruises circle his eye and paint his cheek. The shades of violence at odds with his peaceful expression.

As her eyes trace his features, Clarke thinks about how he held her the night before. Held her and let her collapse into him, without expectation, without judgment. Just unyielding support. Even after she’d run out on him. Even after she showed him the darkest parts of herself she never wanted anyone to see. 

She might be broken, but in the bright light of morning, she lets herself believe that maybe—maybe—her pieces are cracked in a way that makes them fit with his. That maybe she was meant to break, if only so she could heal stronger. 

She extricates herself slowly, careful not to wake Bellamy, and pads across the cold tile floor to use the bathroom. Her eyes feel sticky from a mixture of tears and lack of sleep. She takes a moment to splash her face with cold water, facing her reflection in the smudged mirror. 

She looks the same—same blue eyes, same blonde hair—yet she feels different. Lighter. Like the dark fog clouding her life has cleared so she can finally see now that the weight of keeping secrets has been lifted from her shoulders.

When she comes back into the room, Bellamy’s awake, blinking sleep from his eyes. He catches sight of her. 

“You’re still here,” he breathes.

She settles next to him on the couch her knee bumping his, “I’m still here,” she says, soft.

He reaches for her hand, she can feel the callouses and scabs that decorate his palms and outline his knuckles as his fingers interlock with hers. The gesture is careful. Almost hesitant. It feels like they’re learning each other all over again. Her heartbeat picks up.

“How are you feeling?” 

She swallows and stare at their hands. The question feels heavier with all the truth between them. Her first instinct is always to lie, to shield herself, but she feels stripped of her armor. Laid bare. 

“I’m doing better, now. You okay?” she asks, eyeing the cuts and bruises on his face.

His thumb brushes the back of her hand, “Better.” 

He clears his throat, “What happened last night…that was a panic attack?”

Clarke nods, her vision hollows, the ripples from last night still vibrating her bones.

“And it wasn’t something Wells—?”

She cuts him off, “No, no. It’s wasn’t because of Wells.” 

She sighs, reading the question in Bellamy’s eyes. She chose to tell him the truth, all the truth, last night. She’s not going to let herself back out of that now. 

She wills her heart to steady, “Lexa was at the fight.” 

His reaction is immediate. Clenched jaw, tense shoulders. His eyes crackle with violence.

“What did she want?”

Her hands tremble as old fears take familiar forms, “I don’t know. But I can’t—I can’t think about that right now.” 

She can still see the fight on his face, even as he lets the subject drop. 

The morning light feels harsh and unforgiving; she misses the comforting cloak of night. Clarke places her hand on Bellamy’s knee, her fingers curling into him. 

“I’m sorry, Bell. I shouldn’t have run out that morning,” the words tumble quietly from her lips.

He smiles soft and slowly slides forward, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. It feels too daunting to look him in the eye, so she stares at his mouth, letting her gaze fall on the faint scar that puckers his upper lip. 

“It’s okay.”

Clarke knows that after everything she has to be the one to take that final leap. 

There’s so much to say, but she can’t find the words.

She can’t find the words so she kisses him instead. And when he kisses her back, she feels whole.

  


* * *

  


That night finds her and Wells curled up on her bed, her laptop between them while they watch Parks and Rec on Netflix. It’s Wells’ last night before he has to go back to school in California. Raven’s spending the night at Octavia’s again. 

Since she and Bellamy just made up, Clarke hasn’t had a chance to speak to Octavia yet. She’s nervous; she has a feeling that Octavia won’t be quick to thaw. But Clarke knows she needs to seek her out soon. 

They’re about to start season four when there’s a knock at the door. Clarke gets up to open the door and finds Bellamy on the other side, leaning against the door frame—all freckled skin and a crooked smile. He’s wearing a leather jacket but she can see the dark ink of his tattoos beneath his collar. He smiles and she can’t help but grin back. 

“I didn’t know you were coming by.” 

His smile widens, laughter dancing in his eyes, “Nice to see you too, Princess.” 

The moment crumbles when Bellamy’s eyes drift behind Clarke. His shoulders tense as he catches sight of Wells. Clarke turns and sees Wells looking equally wary. Clarke sighs.

“Bellamy, this is Wells. I don’t think you two have formally met.”

Bellamy nods, aloof, but Wells, angel that he is, gets up from Clarke bed and extends his hand. It’s a peace offering. Bellamy takes it, shaking his hand. Clarke rolls her eyes when both men hold on a beat too long, their grips firm.

“You two are ridiculous, I need a drink.”

“Princess, I hate to break it to you, but you’re underage,” Bellamy drawls.

Wells snorts and Clarke grins, “Yeah, like that’s ever stopped me before.”

She slides open the bottom drawer of her desk and pulls out two bottles.

“What’ll it be? Vodka or rum?”

They end up drinking rum and coke out of Clarke’s mugs. She’s bookended by the two boys, Bellamy at one end of her bed, Wells at the other. The two of them take up most of the space, all longs legs and muscle. 

As they drink, the tension starts to wane. They watch a movie on her laptop. And Clarke finds herself leaning more and more against Bellamy’s arm while he plays with the ends of her hair.

Underneath the blanket of dark, Bellamy presses his lips to her shoulder, and she trails her fingers up his thigh. Wells drives back to his hotel around one in the morning. He’d been careful not to drink very much, knowing he had to catch a plane back to California the next day. He 

He says goodbye, telling Clarke he’ll see her at breakfast with Raven the next day. Once he leaves, it’s just Bellamy and Clarke. 

She can feel his heartbeat against her shoulder as she leans against him. She turns to meet his eyes in the dark, the lights still off. 

Electricity crackles in the air between them. So palpable that Clarke wonders if she might see sparks.

But Bellamy looks away. She feels the lack of his warmth like a physical ache as he disentangles himself. He stands up as if to leave, but sways against Clarke’s bed as he tries to put on his boots.

“Bellamy, you’ve been drinking. You shouldn’t drive, you can stay here.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Princess.”

“I’m not letting you drive home like this.” He sighs, “Bell…” she pleads, tugging his hand. 

When he turns to face her, the words die on both their lips as they notice how close they are. 

Bellamy’s lick his lips, his eyes trained on her mouth, “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to.”

She nudges the tip of her nose against his, “You haven’t asked me what I want,” she whispers.

He swallows, “Clarke…”

The rum’s loosened her lips and she feels powerless to stop the flow of her words, “I missed you,” she presses her lips to his shoulder. 

She feels Bellamy exhale against her hair.

“I missed you too.”

“Yeah?”

Her room is dark and she feels brave, strengthened by liquor and the late hour. 

She turns her head to bring her lips against his neck, “Tell me what you missed,” she whispers.

He pulls back, his nose grazing her temple.

“I missed your smile.” His fingers skim her jaw, “I missed your eyes,” his index finger traces a line up her cheek to her brow, “I missed getting to see blue first thing in the morning.” 

His fingers tangle in her blonde curls, “I missed the smell of your shampoo on my pillow,” his left thumb brushes her lips, parting them with a calloused thumb, “I missed your lips.” 

Her heart thumps painfully in her chest as he trails off, watching her, his eyes are dark with lust.

Her lips brush against his thumb when she speaks.

“You know what I missed?” she rasps, “I missed your fingers,” she nips his thumb, then sits up on her knees before straddling him, knees bracketing his hips. 

From this angle she’s slightly taller than him. She trails her hands up his arms and across his shoulders before sliding her fingers into his hair. His curls are soft. 

She brushes her thumb against his cheekbone, “I missed your freckles. I missed your laugh,” she leans her forehead against his temple. His fingers grip her thighs. “I missed you, Bellamy. All of you.”

He surges forward, capturing her lips in a kiss. She can barely catch her breath, desperately chasing his mouth as his fingers trail flames across her body. She slides her hands under his t-shirt and lightly drags her nails against his bare skin. He breaks their kiss to tug the fabric over his head. She pulls off her sweatshirt and the tank underneath in one fluid motion before his lips find hers again, tongue sliding into her mouth almost urgently. His calloused thumbs press into the jut of her hips as she undoes his belt. 

He flips them over pulling away to quickly step out of his jeans and boxers. He climbs on top of her and she pulls him down to lick into his mouth. She grinds against him, only her thin shorts between them and grins against his mouth when a groan slips from his lips.

He pulls back, leaning against his forearms. His pupils are wide and his breath comes in heavy pants. When he speaks, his voice rumbles like rolling thunder. 

"I can't—this can’t be just a hook up, Clarke. I want more than that. And if that—"

She cuts him off, leaning up and tangling their mouths together. She’s pressed against him, every inch of her body lined against his. Hard muscle against her soft curves, his want, pressed against her leg. Distracting and intoxicating. 

"I’m serious about you, Bellamy." 

At her words, the last wall between them turns to dust and they charge after each other like waves, racing to crash on the shore—powerful and finite and desperate to break and crest. 

His fingers slip inside the waistband of her shorts, “Why are you still wearing these?” He bites his way down her sternum as he slides both her shorts and her underwear down her legs.

“You okay with this?” he whispers into the skin of her hip. She meets his eyes, nodding as she slides her fingers into his hair. 

It doesn’t take her long. She gives herself up to his touch and comes gasping his name.

He kisses her, tongue slick with her taste. She reaches down between them to stroke his length.

Clarke presses another quick kiss to Bellamy’s lips before grabbing a condom from the desk beside her bed. He quickly opens the packet and rolls the condom on.

He slides into her slowly, letting her body adjust as she stretches to fit him. She smiles and his hips begin to move. Their breath mingles as they chase release, eventually tumbling breathlessly into bliss.

After, they lie on her bed, sweat cooling on their skin as they catch their breath. A few minutes later, Clarke starts to shiver. She pulls the sheets up and rests her head against Bellamy’s bare chest. There isn’t much room on the bed, so they wrap around each other, legs and limbs tangling. 

As she drifts off, it occurs to her that Bellamy is her safety now. Her partner, her equal. 

At the thought, a feeling like terror tickles her belly. Fear tangles with the vulnerability of tying so much to another person. But exhaustion drags her into sleep before her mind can spiral.

  


* * *

  


“You’re really serious about him, aren’t you?”

The question comes from Raven. Eggs, pancakes, and—Wells’ favorite—hash browns are piled around them. They speak between mouthfuls of food. They’ve all been friends for too long to care what the others think of their manners.

Somehow the topic has managed to circle back to Clarke and her relationship with Bellamy.

She takes a sip of her coffee before answering, “Yeah, I am.”

“I didn’t expect to like him, but I think he might be good for you,” Wells tells her. 

Clarke smiles before flipping the focus back to him, “Do you really think you want to transfer here next semester?”

He grins as she and Raven bombard him with inquiries.

  


* * *

  


She and Bellamy fall back into old patterns. They grab lunch, sit next to each other in class. It’s so similar to how it was when they were just friends, or even friends who had sex, but now something crucial has shifted. Now, she spends most nights in Bellamy’s bed. She sleeps with him and wakes up beside him in the next day. Now, she gets Bellamy’s sleepy smiles and morning sex. 

It’s terrifying this new closeness. But it’s exhilarating, too. She feels vulnerable and safe all at once. 

(She wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything in the world.)

  


* * *

  


Bellamy’s in the shower one evening while Clarke works on a problem set at the kitchen table when someone knocks on the door. 

Clarke opens the door to find Anya, looking pissed.

“Where’s Blake?” her tone is clipped and in the few conversations Clarke has had with the older woman, she’s never seen her so cold.

“He’s in the shower. Is there something you need?” Clarke squares her shoulder, refusing to bend against Anya’s glare.

“We have business to discuss,” Anya spits the words.

Clarke doesn’t want to let Anya in, but she knows that Bellamy would, and this is his apartment so she steps back and lets her inside before going to get Bellamy out of the shower.

Within a few minutes Bellamy is dressed and in the living room, his hair still dripping from the shower.

When Anya looks pointedly at Clarke Bellamy pauses, shoulders rigid, before asking her to wait in the bedroom. She stiffens, worried, but retreats to his room and shuts the door. 

Bellamy knows the rooms aren’t sound proof. The thought makes her smile. If Bellamy really hadn’t wanted her to hear his conversation with Anya, he would have told her to go over to Miller’s. 

She sits on the bed and listens.

“You know why I’m here, Blake.”

“Not really. It’s one fight, not the end of the world.”

“You know that’s not the point. You don’t get to make decisions like this without consulting me, Blake.”

“Fine, but I’m still not fighting on Saturday.”

“I have a lot of money riding on this fight.”

“Get Lincoln to step in.” 

“You know it doesn’t work like that,” Anya’s voice turns vicious, “Don’t forget, you still owe me, Blake.”

There’s a long pause.

“Fine. I’ll fight.”

There isn’t much else to the conversation, but Clarke feels her stomach drop. A feeling, cold as ice, runs through her veins. It hardens in her veins as she comes to realize how little she knows about Bellamy and his life.

  


* * *

  


The fight is on Saturday night, but she can’t bring herself to go. Her panic attack is still fresh in her mind and the idea of spending the night in a hot, crowded room surrounded by a drunk and destructive crowd turns her stomach and makes her heart thrash painfully in her chest.

So she stays in.

  


* * *

  


At 1 am her phone rings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Questions? Concerns? Come talk to me in the comments:)


	8. there is love in your body but you can't get it out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There is love in your body but you can't hold it in_   
>  _It pours from your eyes and spills from your skin_   
>  _Tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> -Hardest of Hearts, Florence and the Machine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a big one, so any and all thoughts you might have will be very much appreciated. Hope you guys like it!

The loud ring of her phone tears Clarke from sleep. She sits up, disoriented, surrounded by pitch black. Her phone rings again and she scrambles to answer it, still half-asleep.

“Hello?” 

Octavia’s voice, frantic, verging on panic, and so different from her usual casual indifference, jars the quiet of Clarke’s dorm room. 

“Clarke, thank God! You need to come to the apartment.” 

Clarke leans forward, immediately more awake.

“Octavia? What’s going on?”

“Bellamy’s in bad shape. He lost his fight and I’m pretty sure he has a concussion, but he won’t let me take him to the hospital.” 

Clarke digs her nails into her thigh, hoping the pain will help put a cap on the terror rising in her throat. 

When she speaks, her words are surprisingly calm. Clinical. 

“Can Raven come pick me up? I don’t have a car.”

“She’s already on her way over.”

Clarke lets out a small breath of relief, “Okay, good. I'll be there as soon as I can."

There’s a pause and then, softly, “Thanks, Clarke.”

The line goes dead.

The reality of the situation rises up before her like a wave. Thoughts of worse case scenarios crash behind Clarke’s eyes.

_No. Bellamy will be fine. He always is._

Clarke quickly changes out of her pajamas. She pulls on her boots and coat quickly before rushing down the stairs to wait for Raven outside.

Her exhales create clouds of white in the freezing cold, late November air until finally Raven's truck swings in from the road. The bright headlights leave imprints on the backs of Clarke’s eyelids. 

She climbs in beside Raven. Neither one of them bothers with hello's as Raven turns the truck around and pulls back out onto the road.

“What happened?” Clarke’s throat feels thick. Her voice wavers, revealing the emotions she's trying so hard to suppress.

Raven immediately hears what she was trying to say. _How did this happen? How did Bellamy lose?_

“I don’t really know,” Raven sighs, “Everything was pretty normal leading up to the fight. I mean, Octavia knew Bell—” 

Raven catches herself mid-sentence and reroutes the direction of her words. Clarke frowns but lets it go.

“Octavia thought Bellamy was going to beat this guy easily. It was some random guy—Dax, I think—from a community college nearby. No one really knew anything about him; he wasn’t supposed to be a threat. But Bellamy was distracted from the start and this guy, Dax, took advantage. He just lay into Bellamy. It was bad. Bellamy hit his head on the concrete when Dax tackled him. Some guy named Lincoln had to step in and pull Dax away. Lincoln helped us get Bellamy to the truck after the fight and by the time we got back to the apartment, Bellamy insisted on walking,” Raven turns her head to look over at her friend, “He’s in bad shape, Clarke.”

Clarke's nails dig into her palms as she clenches her fists.

_I should have been there._

The rest of the ride over, Clarke presses her fingers to her temple, tapping out uneven rhythms.

At the apartment complex, she jumps out of the truck before Raven can even come to a full stop. 

She rushes inside, her feet tripping up the stairs in her hurry. Clarke catches herself on the railing before finally making it to the Blake’s floor. The door is unlocked and she pushes into the apartment. 

Inside, she can hear Bellamy and Octavia arguing in his bedroom. She breathes a sigh of relief. If he’s arguing with his sister, Bellamy can’t be that bad.

“O, I’m fine!”

“You need to go to a doctor.”

“We can’t afford that and you know it.”

Clarke reaches the doorway in time to see Octavia’s jaw snap shut as she swallows her protests. The siblings stare at each other, fire in their eyes, but the only thing Clarke can focus on is Bellamy. 

He’s sitting on the end of his bed, his hands, scuffed and red, clutch the bed frame like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Her breath snags in her lungs. 

Bellamy’s bruised and bloodied and worse than she’s ever seen him. He's hunched over, favoring his left side as he breathes slowly through his nose, fighting against the pain. 

Clarke’s feet stick to the floor. Her shaking hand covers her mouth. She must make a noise because Bellamy’s gaze snaps to hers. 

“Princess,” the word escapes on a breath, unbidden. 

At the sound of his voice, Clarke rushes forward. She drops to her knees in front of Bellamy, ignoring Octavia behind her.

Clarke quickly catalogs the marks on his face, taking note of Bellamy’s uneven pupils. One is wide and blown while the other looks small and strained. She clenches her jaw, recognizing the obvious sign of head trauma. 

Bellamy’s pained, uneven pants graze her cheek and Clarke releases her grasp on his chin. She grabs the hem of his shirt and hisses when she lifts it to check his ribs. A dark bruise is already forming. Bellamy grunts when her fingers meet his skin. She lets his shirt fall back down.

“You need to see a doctor,” she states, firm.

His eyes are hard. He’s not going to budge on this.

“I’m fine,” he says through clenched teeth.

“No, you’re not. _You need to see a doctor._ ”

“I’ve got you.”

“You need to see a professional, not a freshman pre-med student,” she argues. “I can’t—I don’t know what I’m doing. All I know is what I learned stitching up the men who worked for my mother. I’m not enough, Bellamy,” her voice cracks on his name.

Clarke feels Bellamy and Octavia’s eyes on her as she takes a deep breath to collect herself.

“Bell, please, let me take you to the hospital.”

The muscle in Bellamy's jaw jumps, “I can’t afford hospital bills, Clarke. Not after losing the fight tonight.”

Octavia scoffs and storms out of the room, the door slamming shut on her heels. 

Clarke twists the ring on her finger as she tries to get her heart to slow. Bellamy’s voice startles her when he speaks—his words rough and bitter.

“Where were you?”

She looks up, startled by his anger, “What?” 

Bellamy’s jaw is clenched. This time, it’s not in pain.

“You weren’t at the fight tonight. Where were you?”

“I—I left a message on your phone. I figured you got it before you left.” 

Bellamy shakes his head slowly.

Clarke sighs, unsteady, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t handle going tonight,” her fingers tap against her thigh, “not after what happened last time.”

His face softens as his anger wanes, “You could have said something.”

“I know,” she swallows, “I’m not very good at admitting when I’m not okay.”

Bellamy huffs a laugh, but his smile immediately shifts into a grimace at the pain in his side.

“That’s probably something we both need to work on,” he says, voice strained.

Clarke reaches up to brush a blood-soaked curl back from his face.

“There’s no way I can convince you to go see a real doctor, is there?”

He shakes his head.

She sighs, pulling away her hand, “I’ll go get the first aid kit.”

  


* * *

  


One concussion, two ribs that are almost certainly cracked, and more bruises than Clarke can count. 

That’s the tally of battle on Bellamy’s body. 

No internal bleeding, no lasting brain damage, but it’s still a lot. And recovery will be slow. 

She wipes the blood from his face and thinks about how he hadn’t even wanted to fight tonight. 

The rag she uses turns red, the stain of a boy that won’t fade. Another mark of his making beats inside her chest. 

Three months. That's how long she's known him. Three months. 

The number feels small, so Clarke counts. She counts the number of times Bellamy brought her coffee at the library. She tries to add up the number of breaths they’ve shared. The number of kisses—of touches. She tries to count the late nights they’ve spent together—the seconds they’ve sat in safe silence. 

(She can't. They're innumerable.)

Counting leads to wondering. Clarke wonders how many breaths she’s wasted denying their connection, how many moments she’s spent biting her tongue against confession. 

She wonders how many seconds, minutes, hours, days, she’s known she loves him.

Because it’s a fact now. The sky is blue, the earth is round, and she loves Bellamy Blake.

  


* * *

  


Bellamy falls asleep around half past two in the morning and Clarke sets an alarm on her phone to remind her to wake him up in three hours. She decides to go make a pot of coffee. There’s no way she’s getting any sleep tonight anyway.

Octavia and Raven are sitting on the couch when Clarke leaves Bellamy’s room and their whispered conversation cuts off when they see her.

Raven gives her a soft look, but Octavia doesn’t even glance her way as she passes. Clarke smiles weakly at Raven, the gesture a ghost of what it’s been the past few weeks.

She pads into the kitchen, the tile cold beneath her feet. She starts going through the necessary motions to make coffee. 

A moment later, she hears the fridge open and close behind her. The silence speaks. 

(She knew she had to face Octavia eventually.) 

Clarke's shoulders tense. She and Bellamy might have worked things through, but his sister had been much slower to forgive Clarke for running out on her brother. There’s a sharp snap as Octavia bites into an apple. Clarke switches on the coffeemaker before turning to face her.

Octavia throws her words like a punch. 

“You lied to me. You said you didn’t want to let Bellamy down, but you did." 

Octavia’s eyes are cold and her jaw is stiff. Clarke can’t help but notice how much she looks like her brother when she’s angry. Clarke takes a deep breath.

“You're right, I let him down. I didn’t think. I was…I was scared,” she meets Octavia's eyes, “But I’m never going to run away like that again."

Octavia stares at her, Clarke can feel the girl’s sharp gaze peeling back the layers of her skin. It’s a full minute before Octavia gives her a firm nod.

“Okay. I’m giving you another chance, but only because Bellamy asked me to. And you should know that if you fuck with him again—if you leave, that’s it. I’m done with you. For good. Regardless of whether Bell forgives you again or not."

“I understand." 

They look at each other. It’s awkward, but Clarke can see something like peace settle behind Octavia’s eyes. It feels like the first step to forgiveness.

  


* * *

  


His room is a medley shadows and grotesquely lit angles. The only light pours in through the doorway where Clarke stands, immobile. 

Bruises, blood, the pale cast of his skin, the sight hits her like a kick in the stomach. She wants to hunch over, wants to shut her eyes, but even her blinks slice reality with nightmares. 

Her mind plays her memories like a roll of film.

  


* * *

  


She’s seventeen. Smile melting off her face when she opens the door to two men in blue. 

_No, her mother’s not home. What’s going on?_

A look of pity on the younger cop’s face. The ground giving out beneath her. 

_Jake Griffin’s dead_. Her dad is gone. 

The rest of the night is blank—a black, empty void. All Clarke remembers is waking up to bruises on her knees where she collapsed on the hard marble floor.

Her mind spins forward—to the days that followed. Breaking into her mother’s office. Not knowing what she would find. Wanting more than just the closed casket funeral. Desperately seeking any scrap of information related to what happened to her father.  
Finding the photographs on her mother’s desk. Images that burn into her brain and she can never un-see.

_Snap_. Her father’s empty gaze. _Snap_. Blood on his skin. _Snap_. Bruises. Broken bones. 

Evidence of a war he’d lost. 

She’d sat clutching the images for hours. Sobbing. Masochistically hoping that her mother would come home and catch her in the office. Punish her for disobeying. 

Picking herself up off the ground when her mother didn’t come home. Dusting off the back of her skirt, smoothing the wrinkles in her blouse. Leaving the photos where she found them, it didn't matter anyway. 

She’d never be able to forget the sight of her father’s death.

  


* * *

  


She breaks from the reverie, memories still clawing at her brain, but Clarke forces herself to notice the rise and fall of Bellamy’s chest and not the beating still fresh on his face. 

_He’s alive. He’s fine._ Bellamy’s a fighter in every sense of the word. 

_He’ll be fine._

She repeats the words to herself. A quiet mantra in her head. But it’s not quite enough and she finds herself sitting down on the mattress beside him.

Her fingers trace his face with a light touch. His eyelashes are long and dark against his cheek. She can see some freckles beneath the cuts and bruising. 

The sky is still dark outside, barely morning, Octavia and Raven have retreated to her room to finally get some sleep. All that’s left is empty quiet. 

She brushes Bellamy’s hair back from his forehead carefully, letting her fingers thread through his dark curls.

He’s so quiet Clarke doesn’t even realize Bellamy’s awake until she notices him watching her, eyes full of an emotion she can’t quite place. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” she murmurs. She brushes her thumb across a patch of freckles on his forehead, “You can go back to sleep.” 

A large hand curls around hers. Bellamy brushes his thumb against the inside of her wrist. He brings her hand to his mouth and time slows as he presses a kiss to her palm before letting go.

His eyelids flutter closed and he relaxes back into sleep. Clarke watches, unable to tear her eyes away. 

_When did I fall in love with you?_

  


* * *

  


Clarke brings Bellamy breakfast in the morning but she can’t meet his eyes. Octavia and Raven both had work they couldn’t miss, so it’s just her and Bellamy in the apartment now. No audience.

Her heart feels weak and her mind spins trying to find the right words for what she wants to say.

In the end, it doesn’t matter, they tumble out in a mess.

“I think you should stop fighting.”

Bellamy’s head snaps up from the mug of coffee, “What?”

“I just—I don’t think it’s worth it.” 

She stares at the ground. 

“You were lucky last night, so lucky. I know you don’t think it was a big deal, but you could have died," she breaks off. 

"I can’t watch you die, Bellamy,” she whispers, a sob stuck in her throat as flickering images of her father’s death float before her eyes. 

_Sallow face, bruised skin, a chest that refused to rise._ She sees Bellamy’s face where her father’s should be. 

She blinks away blurry tears and looks up. Bellamy’s expression is soft. He reaches forward, his fingers sliding between hers, warm and present. His gentle touch helps pull her away from the sharp-edged fear.

“Hey,” he whispers, his voice scratchy and deep, “I’m okay,” He tugs her onto the bed beside him, “Really.” 

She curls into him, letting herself mold to his shape. His shirt is soft beneath her fingers and she curls them into the fabric. She’s careful not to bump the ribs on his left side.

He presses his mouth to her neck and speaks into the skin of her jaw, “Nothing’s going to happen to me. I won’t let it. Last night was a fluke. It won’t ever happen again. I promise.”

She exhales, her breath uneven against his collarbone, “But you’re going to keep fighting.”

His stiffens slightly, his voice taking on an edge, “Yeah, I’m going to keep fighting.” 

Her teeth clack together. She clenches her jaw but doesn’t say anything else. 

After a few minutes, she finds the strength to extricate herself. She checks Bellamy’s injuries and helps him move to the couch in the living room. Every grunt of pain and hiss that escapes his teeth heats the anger building in her chest. It bubbles beneath her skin.

When he’s finally settled, Clarke meets Bellamy's eyes and lets the anger and worry tearing at her insides flow from her lips. 

“Bellamy, last night you needed me, so I came. And I’ll always come when you need me to. But I hate seeing you like this. I hate having to stitch you up time and again,” she rubs her forehead, “When I left California, I thought I was done living in a world of violence. I know you need the money from your fights, and I know this is your way of taking care of Octavia and to some extent yourself, but it hurts seeing you break and having to be the person who picks you up afterward.”

There's a beat of silence when she finishes. She waits, but Bellamy doesn’t say anything. She heads for the door, needing space to cool off.

She’s reaching for the knob when he speaks.

“I was fifteen… when my mom died,” his voice is gruff, low. She turns, heart crashing in her ears as she stares at the back of Bellamy’s head. 

He’s never mentioned his mom before. 

She walks back over to the couch quietly; afraid she might scare him back into silence.

But as he speaks, Bellamy’s voice grows steady, “I saw her death coming, but it still surprised me. It felt like everything happened so fast.”

Her hip presses into his when she settles beside him. She doesn’t say anything, she just listens. She lets him be heard. 

“She was diagnosed with stomach cancer and six months later she was gone. Octavia wasn’t even thirteen.”

Clarke presses her lips to his shoulder silently and rests a hand on his thigh. Bellamy’s hand covers hers.

“We moved here from Boston to live with my Aunt. She—she wasn’t bad, but she was already working two jobs. She had her own kids and a husband to take care of. My uncle served in Iraq and he was pretty messed up from the war. Mentally and physically. He couldn’t hold a steady job and our Aunt couldn’t afford to take on two more kids. Octavia and I lived in their house but we were on our own.

“By the time we got to Ark, I already knew how to throw a punch. Growing up, my mom had one type: asshole. The guys she dated drank too much and sometimes… sometimes they got aggressive. When I was old enough, I learned to hit back,” Bellamy’s fingers tighten around Clarke's hand, “In high school, I was angry and reckless. I got into fights all the time. That's how I met Anya. She saw me take down a guy twice my size. She’s the one who brought me into the fight ring. It was easy money. No one was betting on the scrawny kid from out of town. And plenty of the time, they were right not to. But, eventually, I started getting better, winning more and more of my fights. I could always find an excuse for needing the money. There was always something Octavia or I needed.”

Bellamy turns his head to look at Clarke. His eyes are cracked stain glass windows. Broken and still beautiful.

“Fighting has always been the one thing I’m good at. My whole life I’ve only ever been worth as much as my fists.” 

They sit in silence for a few moments, in the ebb and flow of comfort brought by one another’s presence.

“Why did you try to get out of the fight last night?” she whispers the question into his shoulder, the fabric softening her words.

Bellamy’s voice is hollow when he answers.

“Yesterday was my mom’s birthday.” 

Clarke swallows, remembering how Bellamy had curled around her yesterday morning. He’d held her close to his chest, lips against her forehead, fingers pressed into her back. 

She’d sensed something was off but hadn’t asked, figuring that if he wanted to talk about it, he would. She’d brushed kisses across his eyelids and drawn sighs from his lips until the tension in his shoulders faded. She’d only pulled away because she’d promised to meet Monty for a late breakfast. 

Guilt pools in her stomach and she wishes she’d asked him what was wrong. She wishes she’d somehow been able to instinctively know. She wishes she’d stayed.

Bellamy goes on, “I knew I would be distracted, but I didn’t think it would be that bad. But I couldn’t stop thinking about my mom and what she would say if she could see me now. It was worse without you there, not knowing where you were.”

Clarke opens her mouth to speak, but Bellamy brushes his thumb over her knuckles, his words not breaking stride.

“I know you tried to let me know, but I turned off my phone before I left. During the fight, I couldn’t focus. I kept scanning the crowd looking for you. I was worried Lexa might show up or that you might have another panic attack. I shouldn’t have fought yesterday. And now I’m paying for my mistake.”

“I’m so sorry, Bellamy,” Clarke whispers.

He holds her jaw when he kisses her. Deep and devastatingly. 

For better or for worse they found each other. Two people from opposite upbringings who manage to share a genuine understanding of the painful realities of life. 

She kisses him back completely, letting her lips say the words she can’t yet speak. 

_I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can, please take the time to leave a comment. This chapter was a difficult one to write, so I'd appreciate any feedback you might have.


	9. cross your sorry heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So canon sucks, but at least we have fic, right? Please don't forget to leave kudos and a comment letting me know what you thought!
> 
> (chapter title from Trouble by Halsey)

_The air is hot—suffocating—the humidity makes her hair stick to her face as beads of sweat run down the side of her neck and trickle down her spine._

_The crowd roars again and her stomach drops. The shouts are an ocean of noise, the spectators a thunderstorm of bodies._

_Dread chokes her. Her nerves are live wires. She’s left worrying that at any moment lightning will strike and the room will catch fire._

_In front of her, two men clash with all the fury of a hurricane._

_Bellamy’s black curls drip with sweat. The black ink of his tattoos stands out, stark in the yellow glow of the lights His naked chest glints in the shadowy light, wet with perspiration, as he ducks to avoid his opponent’s punch._

_The crowd’s noise assaults her ears and fills up the stuffy room with hot air. All of Clarke’s attention is on Bellamy—only Bellamy—as he swings his fist into the other man’s jaw. There’s an audible crack and Dax’s head snaps to the side._

_He staggers but manages to avoid Bellamy’s next swing._

_Dax’s teeth are red, he spits blood onto the floor, his gaze growing dangerously dark._

_Bellamy doesn’t move quickly enough and Clarke’s stomach plummets when Dax tackles him to the ground. His back hits concrete and the men meet in a brutal clash of knuckles._

_Dax gets the upper hand, pinning a knee against Bellamy’s chest and careening punch after punch into Bellamy until blood coats his face._

_Clarke wants to scream but she can’t find air in her lungs. She watches helplessly as Bellamy breaks. He starts to choke on his own blood, unable to breathe, but Dax doesn’t stop._

_All Clarke hears are the crowd’s cheers as she watches the life drip from Bellamy’s ey---_

She sits up struggling for breath. Her heart thumps painfully in her chest and it takes her a moment to orient herself. She’s not at the fight. She’s in bed, Bellamy beside her, safe and sound asleep. 

It’s been almost a week since Bellamy lost the fight. But every night since, she’s shut her eyes to find nightmares. Bellamy’s death a thousand ways. 

The first night, she had broken from the terrifying dream and spiraled into a full blown panic attack. It had woken Raven in the bed beside her and she’d stayed by Clarke’s side for half an hour until the panic retracted its claws and Clarke collapsed with exhaustion. 

Raven had curled around her and they’d spent the rest of the night talking so Clarke didn’t have to go back to sleep. 

She tries to slow her breathing so she won’t wake Bellamy beside her, but she her lungs won’t cooperate. She swings her legs over the side of the bed and presses her face into her hands. Her feet find the cold floor and she leans forward, nails digging into her scalp. 

Clarke startles when a large warm hand brushes her shoulder. Bellamy rubs slow, soothing circles into her back and his voice is low and soothing. 

“Breathe, Clarke. Breathe. You’re okay.”

Eventually, her breathing returns to normal but it’s another minute before she can sit up. When she does, Bellamy wordlessly pulls her into him and she folds into his chest. They lie back on the bed, legs intertwined. Clarke listens to Bellamy’s breathing slow as sleep drags him under and even though she doesn’t get any more sleep that night, Bellamy’s warm body against hers steadies her and balances the beats of her heart.  


* * *

  
Last night was the first night Clarke’s spent at Bellamy’s since his fight with Dax. She’s seen him almost every day this week, but, still, she's missed having him first thing in the morning.

Bellamy stumbles out of his room, groggy with sleep, to find Clarke sitting on the counter, her third cup of coffee warm in her hands. 

She knows what she must look like—tangled hair, bruised under-eyes, wan skin—she looks like the poster child for the negative effects of lack of sleep. But she’d rather be lacking in sleep than swimming in terror.

Bellamy smiles when he sees her. His hands find the counter beside her legs and he leans in to give her a lazy, lingering kiss. He smells like fresh laundry and tastes like sleep. She slides her fingers into his hair. 

When they pull apart, Bellamy’s eyes are no longer cloudy. 

“’Morning,” he rumbles.

He presses another quick kiss to her lips, gets himself a cup of coffee, and settles back beside her.

She swirls the coffee in her mug and takes a long sip, dreading the conversation that’s about to happen.

His thumb brushes her knee, “You doing okay?”

She nods, “Yeah, just another nightmare last night.”

“Another?” he asks, concerned, “How long has this been happening?” 

“Since Sunday night,” she says quietly.

“Is that why you haven’t been sleeping?” Worry laces his tone.

Clarke shrugs. She doesn’t want to get into another fight with Bellamy and she’s worried that’s where this conversation is leading.

He presses a kiss to her shoulder, “If you want to talk about it, I’m here,” he says gently.

Clarke drops a soft kiss on his mouth. 

“Thank you,” she breathes, brushing her thumb across his cheek.  


* * *

  
On Thursday, she’s headed to her dorm between classes when she comes face to face with the ghost that’s been haunting her for months.

Instinctively, her hands curl into fists. Anger, cold and ugly, bubbles beneath her skin.

Lexa looks the same as always. Collected, unbothered. Like she didn’t rip Clarke to shreds when she left her a year ago.

“Hi, Clarke.”

Clarke’s nails dig into her palms, but she keeps the storm inside her from filtering across her features, keeping them carefully blank. 

“What are you doing here?” her teeth clip the words.

Lexa frowns, “I’m here to talk to you, Clarke. To make amends.”

Clarke scoffs, “Bullshit. Don’t pretend you’re here for me. You want something. When you left you weren’t coming back. You’re not the kind of person who changes their mind without a reason, so what changed?”

Lexa sighs, “My father’s dead.” 

She says the words without emotion, matter-of-fact, just an item on a list. 

“And my mother has no interest in business, so it’s my job to step into his shoes. I’ve been trying to reestablish our connections and your family is a valuable asset. Unfortunately, your mother has refused to meet with me.”

“So, you figured you’d try to get to her through me?”

Lexa nods.

She can’t help the laugh that bubbles up in her throat. It rings empty—ugly.

Clarke walks up to Lexa, taking careful, measured steps. She throws her words like daggers.

“I’m only going to say this once, so pay attention. I don’t who the fuck you think you are, but you sure as hell never knew me. Because if you did you would know that the last thing I’ve ever wanted is to get involved in anyway with my family’s business. And if you had bothered to spend one second looking into why I left then you would know that even if I wanted to help you—which I don’t—that I am one of the last people who could get through to my mother.”

“Clarke, I’m aware you and your mother have a… strained relationship, but you and I both know that if you reached out to her she would take you back with open arms.”

“But, see, that’s not going to happen. And it sure as hell isn’t going to happen because of you.”

“I think you’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment. Don’t tell me you’re still this angry at me, you know it was nothing personal.”

“It’s always personal, Lexa.”

Clarke walks past her, ready to finally let the poison of her past settle in the dust behind her.

“I thought you would be stronger than this, Clarke. You’ve let emotion make you so weak.”

She turns to face Lexa, staring into the eyes that once brought her hope but now only seem to spell destruction.

“You’re wrong, Lexa. I’m not the one who’s weak, you are. And when you finally realize how empty and sad your life is, it’s going to be too late to save anything.” She checks her phone, “Now I’m late for class, so please feel free to go back to hell or wherever the fuck you came from because I’m done.”  


* * *

  
In class, she can barely concentrate on the professor, her mind still swirling. 

She feels relief, pure and intoxicating. She feels strong, like she could take on the world. She feels free, she’s faced her demons and won.

Seeing Lexa made her realize how toxic and destructive that part of her life really was. It was jarring, to see Lexa lit up against Bellamy. To compare the person who trampled and took to the person who loves and listens.

It made her realize what she has.

She loves Bellamy. Totally. Completely. She loves every part of him. The fighter, the lover, the boy, the man. She loves him, she wants everything with him, and she wants him to know.  


* * *

  
She rehearses her words on the way over to his place. Excitement and nerves spin in her belly. She's desperate to hear what he'll say. How he'll respond. 

_I love you I love you I love you._

But Bellamy has company when she arrives.

She opens the door to his apartment to find a stranger standing across from Bellamy. He's tall and muscled. His arms are covered in sleeves of black ink; the tattoos are intricate but Clarke is too distracted by the tension in the room to pay them more than a passing glance. 

Bellamy barely glances at her, jaw clenched, glare focused on the man in front of him.

"Clarke, this is Lincoln. Lincoln, Clarke."

The stranger gives her a stiff nod and she puts the pieces together. _Lincoln._ This is the guy who helped Raven and Octavia carry Bellamy to his car after his fight with Dax.

A bolt of worry shoots through her and fear rears its head. Clarke's stomach sails into her throat. 

Lincoln meets Bellamy glare head on, "I'm sorry, Bellamy, she's not going to take no for answer," he says, looking sincerely apologetic. 

The silence stretches until finally, Bellamy nods. 

With that, Lincoln leaves.

The door shuts behind Lincoln and Bellamy leans forward, bracing his arms against the kitchen table, his stress obvious in the line of his shoulders and the way the muscle in his jaw jumps.

Bellamy looks up at her, an apology in his eyes. She knows what he's going to say before he says it.

"There's another fight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an angsty chapter, I know, but these two are made of angst. 
> 
> Leave a comment letting me know what you thought and what you'd like to see more of in the coming chapters! (Angst? Fluff? Smut? Friend dynamics? What do you want to see?)


	10. it's left me blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you guys asked for angst and you asked for fluff, so you got both;)

Her heart keeps beating, her lungs keep breathing, but she feels her mind crack. 'I love you' evaporates on her lips. She wishes, for a moment, that this were a different life. That this boy, built to singe and burn, didn’t hold her heart in bloody-knuckled, battered fists.

But this isn’t another life. And Clarke loves Bellamy in this one. Despite everything. Despite her fears. Despite his flaws. Despite the fights. She loves him. Her heart is tied to him. He battles and it beats.

“Bell—”

He cuts her off, “I know what you’re going to say, Clarke, but I don’t have a choice.”

He looks up at her. She can still see the fading discoloration on his face. Not even his bruises have healed and he’s going to fight again.

Anger floods her, hot and unforgiving.

“What do you mean you don’t you have a choice? Why does Anya own you?” her words slice, bitter and ugly. 

Bellamy's voice rises to a shout, “She saved my life, Clarke! She saved Octavia’s. You don’t know—you don’t know how bad it was. You don’t understand,” he spits, “You grew up in a different fucking world, you have _no idea_ what our life was like.”

She recoils, her chest and her cheeks hot. Tears sting the backs of her eyes and she swallows bile.

She spins on her heel and flees. The door slams shut behind her, angry and loud. But, with a barrier between them, all the fight leaves Clarke's body.

She sinks against the wall, exhausted. 

This isn't what she wants. 

She doesn't want to leave, but she's not ready to go back inside, the wounds from Bellamy’s harsh words still fresh. 

Clarke slides to the floor and sits her back against the wall. She swallows around the lump in her throat and fights the tears threatening to drown her.

The door swings open again and Bellamy charges out, raw desperation painted across his features. He freezes when he sees her on the ground.

He lands on his knees beside her. She can't bear looking him in the eye so she stares at his shoulder. Tears drip onto her cheeks and she suffocates a sob. 

"I’m sorry,” he whispers, his words cracked and bleeding. 

She meets his eyes, surprised to find them swimming with tears and regret. 

“I can't lose you,” she breathes.

She wraps shaky fingers around the hand clenched in a fist against his side. They grasp one another’s hand like salvation. Bellamy gently brushes a lock of hair back from her face.

"You’re not going to lose me, Princess. I promise." 

She doesn't quite believe him but presses into him anyway. 

Her lips find the place between his neck and his shoulder and they sit there, wrapped around each other until the floods pass.

 

…

 

It’s something right out of her nightmares, but this time, Clarke knows she won’t wake up. She knows the stench and oppressive heat are real, and that the only way out is through.

They announce Bellamy’s opponent first, a short, but stocky man, and a moment later Anya calls out Bellamy’s name. He emerges wearing a dark blue shirt that highlights the savage strength of his arms. The shadow of a bruise stands stark against his cheek. 

It’s only been a week since his fight with Dax and Clarke can see the way Bellamy favors his right side. His ribs are bruised, still healing, and she knows they must hurt. But. It doesn’t matter, he still chose to fight.

The crowd roars. She swims in the sound, trying to keep her head above water. 

Bellamy strikes first, not waiting for his opponent to make the first move. The man tries to dodge the blow, but he’s not quick enough. Bellamy’s fist clips his chin. They circle each other like feral wolves. 

Fear fills Clarke’s lungs as she watches and she struggles not to choke. Bellamy glances her way more than once, reassuring himself that she’s still there. 

He’d told her last night that he thinks he lost the fight because he was distracted. He’d been worried about her and it had scattered his concentration. She hadn’t wanted to come tonight, but Bellamy had asked her to. _I need you, Clarke_ —she hadn’t been able to say no.

(It’s the only thing keeping her from fleeing.)

She watches Bellamy land punch after punch until his opponent drops to the ground and Anya raises Bellamy’s fist above his head in victory. 

Clarke gets lost in the commotion after. She slides between noisy classmates, trying to find her way out of the press of bodies. Bellamy finds her in the crowd and takes her hand, turning to lead her through the throng. People part before him and they eventually emerge in an empty hallway at the back of the building. 

“How do your ribs feel? Are they tender?” she asks, reaching forward to inspect the injuries.

He catches her hands, stopping her, “You don’t need to go into doctor mode right now, Princess. I’m fine.”

She nods and lets her arms fall to her sides, unsure what to do now.

Bellamy contemplates her with careful eyes.

“That wasn’t too bad, was it?”

Clarke doesn’t answer.

“Are you mad that I made you come?”

“You didn’t make me do anything, Bellamy,” she sighs, “I’m not angry, just… overwhelmed. I’ll be fine. Can we just head to your place?”

“Of course,” he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch soft as silk.

 

…

 

She curls around him that night, her legs caught between his and her mouth pressed against his neck. His fingers play with the ends of her hair and she falls asleep to the sound of his calm, even breaths.

(The nightmares still find her.)

 

…

 

It’s Monday, the day after the fight and she’s got the apartment to herself. Bellamy’s still in class for another hour, Octavia’s at work, and Raven’s busy working on an engineering project.

She’s sprawled across the couch, her phone pressed to her ear as she catches up with Wells. He tells her about his plans to transfer to Ark in the fall. She knows it’s the right move for him and she tells him as much. She hears the smile in his voice when he replies and she’s grateful for it, she knows he’s worried about telling his dad. 

Clarke bends her knees, picking at the rip in her jeans as she tries to explain the encounter with Lexa. She rolls words around on her tongue, testing them, trying to figure out which ones fit.

“It was almost… freeing, you know?” She sighs, “I can’t quite explain it, but seeing her put things into perspective. I know Lexa only wanted—” 

The door slams.

Clarke looks over to find Bellamy, his backpack hanging off one shoulder, looking like he just got punched in the stomach. 

She sits up quickly, saying goodbye to Wells and hanging up. Bellamy’s face shutters. Tension settles like an icy cast over the room. 

“You saw Lexa?” 

Clarke nods.

“When?”

She swallows, “A couple days ago.”

Bellamy flinches. The cracks in his armor showing.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Are you okay? Did you…?”

“Have another panic attack? No. It was—it actually helped. It was… cathartic. Seeing her helped me figure some things out.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

Clarke’s fingers tap against her knee. She’s inexplicably nervous. Her stomach ties itself in knots.

Bellamy sits down across from her, his knee knocking into hers. He catches her fingers mid-tap. Her hand trembles, but he ignores it, wrapping his warm fingers around her palm. 

He directs his words at their hands, “Do you still love her?”

She doesn’t hesitate, “No.”

Bellamy glances up, just as nervous as she is. It feels like they’re standing on the edge of a cliff. The fall seems endless, daunting. It’s terrifying, to let yourself give way to a force beyond your control.

She silences her heart by pulling Bellamy into a deep kiss. It’s slow and wet, curling heat in her body. His hands find her waist and her fingers find his hair. 

He pushes her back against the couch, kissing her like it’s all he wants to spend his life doing. Her legs part and he slides into the cradle of her hips. He drags his hands across her body while her nails dig into his back.

Then his right hand grazes the top of her ribcage and a giggle bursts from her mouth.

She turns her smile against his cheek.

“I’m sorry. I’m just really ticklish—” She gets cut off by her own laugh when Bellamy curls his fingers over the spot again, “—right there,” she finishes, breathless. 

Bellamy gazes down at her, his eyes dancing and playful. The shadow of a crooked grin plays at his lips.

“You don’t say.” 

Her laugh fills the apartment as he tickles her. She squirms, shoving Bellamy’s shoulder until his fingers relent. 

She collapses against the couch, out of breath, chest heaving. 

The bright smile on her face matches the one on his. He kisses her, all teeth, and she laughs into his mouth

Bellamy’s smile is soft when he pulls away. His eyes look ready to overflow. 

“I love you,” he breathes. 

The words fall light as air. They float from his tongue. He tells her he loves her like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He says the words like there’s no doubt in his mind—like there hasn’t been for a long time.

Her breath abandons her and she barely manages to find the air to reply. 

“I love you too,” the words spill from her tongue, flooded with affection. A river rushing towards an ocean—a fate impossible to stop. It’s undeniable, she loves him.

He traps her in another kiss and neither one of them pulls back even when they lose their breath in each other’s lungs. 

They lose themselves in the kiss. Sweet, slow salvation. Clarke bites his lips and Bellamy licks into her mouth, wet and aching.

It’s all the words they’ve been suppressing; all the emotion they were bottling up. She kisses him and loses herself in his touch. 

She whispers the words again and again. She says them against his lips and into the place where his heartbeat meets his neck. She presses them into his collarbone and feels them vibrate against his chest. 

He tangles his love in the knots of her curls. He tells her he loves her fervently, between hot breaths; he tells that he loves her softly, in a voice as low as a whisper; he tells her that he loves her between groans, muffled against the bare skin of her shoulder. He tells her a hundred different ways—with passion, with grace, and finally with tender relief as they lie on the ground, sweaty limbs tangled together, both struggling to catch their breath.

Clarke can’t stop smiling. She dances among clouds and sky, she’s infinite in this moment, she wants to stretch it into eternity. She wants to press this feeling into her skin and tattoo it on her heart. She bites Bellamy’s shoulder and happiness rises in her throat when he grins at her, desperately happy, not a storm cloud in sight.

She knows they aren’t perfect; she knows this moment can’t last forever so she memorizes the details. The salty taste of Bellamy’s sweat on her tongue, the swell of sunshine and shadows in the late afternoon. The threadbare carpet scraping the bare skin of her back. The smell of burnt coffee and blessings.

 

…

 

Finals week arrives out of nowhere. Overwhelming and all-encompassing. 

Clarke starts spending all her time in the library, she’s running on nothing but coffee and the sheer will to keep going. 

Bellamy’s is swimming in work too, he has two final papers due and exams to study for. But he’s more in control than Clarke is since he’s already been through the process twice. She spins with anxiety—knots in her chest and snakes in her stomach—but Bellamy helps tug her back down to earth. 

She only finds relief in the breaks between moments, when Bellamy distracts with heat and harmony. 

He finds her in the library, bringing her blessed release. He gives her moments of reprieve and helps her relax. She knows he visits with the explicit intention to distract her, but she can’t say she minds. All it takes is the curve of his smile and the light brush of his lips against her shoulder and she’s following him yet again into the stacks. It’s the only place no one ever goes, even during finals week. 

They collide, but it’s quick, fumbling clothes and deafening hearts. Bellamy unravels her with his tongue and she returns the favor on her knees. They chase breath and find sweet oblivion for a few minutes at a time. They know each other’s bodies well and it doesn’t take them long to have one another gasping and on edge. 

Clarke misses getting to hold him after though, she misses lazy kisses and the bliss of feeling like she could stop time with her fingertips. She can’t wait for finals week to be over.

They don’t study together, too easily distracted by one another’s mouths and hands, but Bellamy spends most nights at her dorm. Raven doesn’t mind, she’s staying with Octavia, the two of them have taken over the apartment, textbooks, notebooks, and flashcards blanketing every flat surface. 

Clarke prefers to study at the library by herself, but sometimes Monty joins her or she’ll share a table with Miller in the coffee shop on the first floor. Bellamy mostly studies in his room or in the history building. For a week, they only see each other in stolen alcoves and under cover of night. 

The nights he spends at their dorm, they stumble into bed but don’t do anything besides sleep. Clarke’s glad Bellamy prefers the cramped space beside her to the bed at his apartment. There’s something solid about sleeping together. They curl around each other and find peaceful relief. 

The only upside to the unending stream of work is that it leaves Clarke so exhausted that when she sleeps, she doesn’t dream. She’s thankful for the respite from her nightmares. She closes her eyes to nothing but the black of her eyelids and Bellamy’s solid arms around her waist and wakes up with his forehead against her chin and his hot breath against her neck. 

After many late nights and countless cups of coffee, finals end. 

Clarke celebrates with Bellamy. 

They lock themselves in his room and crash into each other. They combust, a tangle of tongues and touch. They get lost in sensation and each other. She kisses him slow; he gets her there fast. She bites his shoulder hard; he trails soft lips along her throat.

They order Thai food for dinner and curl up on the couch. Clarke’s in nothing but one of Bellamy’s t-shirts and Bellamy’s naked aside from a pair of sweat pants hanging low on his hips. 

She steals kisses between bites of food and he laughs against her mouth, the sound free and happy. They’re touching at every point possible, a jumble of limbs and warm skin. 

She relaxes against him, knowing without a doubt that she loves him and trusts him. Fear might still sit in the back of her mind, waiting for an opportunity to trample her hope, but for now, there are no battles, only peace—only his warm heart beating beneath her ear and his fingers carding through the hair falling down her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Don't forget to leave a comment and let me know what you thought <3
> 
> (The next chapter is going to have some friend dynamics, so let me know if you're excited for that!)
> 
> (chapter title from Cosmic Love by Florence and the Machine)


	11. your love is worth it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm.
> 
> (chapter title from Bloodsport by Raleigh Ritchie)

Sunday morning. Sleepy, sweet escape. The air is cold but, beneath the sheets, Bellamy’s skin and the soft rise and fall of his chest is all warmth. 

Clarke scatters kisses along his throat, across his sternum, and down his stomach until Bellamy finally stirs.

“Morning—” she cuts him off with a greedy kiss.

Their teeth clack, it’s messy—wet. But she doesn’t care because for the first time in a long time she woke up feeling whole. Last night there were no nightmares—there was no fear—just the warmth of Bellamy’s body in bed beside her. 

She catches her breath when Bellamy’s warm mouth finds the skin beneath her ear, biting and sucking until he leaves a dark stain. 

His hot breath tickles her shoulder and sends shivers down her spine. Her nails scratch lightly down the ridges of his bare stomach. Her mouth finds his again and Bellamy groans against Clarke’s lips when her fingers skim past his hips and slide lower. 

Clarke trails lips and teeth down his throat and licks a wet line down Bellamy’s stomach, delighting in the way his muscles jump.

She slides her fingers into the waistband of Bellamy’s boxers and he lifts his hips so she can drag them off before wrapping her hand around his length. 

His breath stutters when her warm breath fans his tip. She traces her tongue along the underside of him, his salt light on her lips. Bellamy’s hips buck when he watches her take him into her mouth. 

She bobs her head and hollows her cheeks, only stopping when Bellamy tells her between pants that he wants to be inside her. 

She’s grinning when he pulls her up into a sloppy kiss.

He grabs a condom and slides it on quickly before positioning himself at her entrance, where she’s already wet and ready for him.

He slides in smoothly and Clarke cants her hips and kisses him messily. 

They unravel together. Hot breath, sweat-slicked skin, and ‘I love you’ in their mouths.

* * *

Eventually, Clarke can’t ignore her stomach any longer and she’s forced to leave bed to find food. 

Her fuzzy socks slide on the wood floor and she finds Raven and Miller already sitting at the kitchen table, a pile of bagels and cream cheese between them. 

Clarke pours herself a coffee and drops into the chair beside Raven. She leans her head against her best friend’s shoulder. Raven huffs and rolls her eyes before grabbing a pumpernickel bagel and spreading cream cheese across it. Clarke grins brightly when Raven pushes the plate towards her—it’s made exactly how she likes: half bagel, half cream cheese.

“This is why I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Raven replies, but Clarke can see the warmth in her eyes and the edge of a smile in the corner of her mouth.

“Morning, Miller,” Clarke says through a mouthful of bagel.

Miller snorts, “It’s two o’ clock in the afternoon, Clarke.”

“What’s your point?” she says. Her half-smile becomes a full one when Miller rolls his eyes.

“Whatever, I’m just glad you came out of your room so I didn’t have to interrupt anything to say goodbye to you guys.”

Clarke swallows her bite, “Goodbye? Where are you going?”

Miller looks at her like she’s an idiot, “Home. It’s winter break.” And yeah, she deserved that look.

“Are you guys not going anywhere?” Miller asks.

Clarke looks at Raven who, luckily, spares Clarke the need to explain, “No, it’s a pretty expensive flight.” 

Clarke finds Raven’s hand beneath the table and gives it a strong squeeze.

Miller nods. The look on his face makes Clarke think he understands more than he shows but he doesn’t say anything else and the conversation drifts to easier topics.

When he leaves, Miller hugs Raven, Clarke, and Bellamy (once he finally emerges from the room, barefoot in a threadbare shirt) goodbye. His flight back to Michigan leaves that night. 

Once Miller’s gone, Clarke excuses herself. She goes to Bellamy’s room and sits on the bed, staring at her phone screen and the red notification bubble that denotes all the missed phone calls and messages from her mother she’s been ignoring the past couple of weeks. She sighs and braces herself before finally listening to the voicemails she’s left to pile up and collect dust.

“Clarke, it’s your mother. Please let me know if you’re planning to come home for Christmas. I need to make the proper arrangements.”

“Clarke, it’s your mother. Please call me back.”

“Clarke, I know that you don’t want to speak to me, but if you could let me know your plans—“

“Clarke, I assume that this silence means I won’t be seeing you over the holidays. I’ve spoken to Wells and—” 

There are countless others, but Clarke gets the idea. 

She’s been ignoring her mother for months and she knows she’s running out of rope. Eventually, her mother’s not going be satisfied with radio silence and messages through Wells. 

But she’ll cross that bridge when she comes to it.

She’s about to call Wells when the door groan behind her. Bellamy smells like coffee and cream cheese when he wraps his arms around her waist and she can’t help but smile as he sets his chin on her shoulder.

His forearms are solid beneath her fingers as she leans back against his chest. She counts her blessings that there won’t be more fights anytime soon. The college town is pretty much empty over break and, at least until classes resume in January, they get a reprieve.

Bellamy drops a kiss on her shoulder and noses aside her hair.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Oh, you know, life, the universe, whether anything we do is actually meaningful.” 

Bellamy smiles against her cheek. 

“Oh, good, so nothing important,” he pauses and clears his throat, “Raven mentioned that you guys were going to stick around for the holidays.”

Her fingers curl around his arms. _Oh._

“Yeah, there’s not much point in going home,” she says, carefully, “Wells was thinking of coming up and he’s the only family I’d really care about seeing,” she traces the edge of his wolf tattoo with her fingers, “Everyone else I love is here.” 

It’s still surprisingly hard to admit how much Bellamy means to her. (She thinks he might be it for her.). She knows he loves her, but she also knows that she’s the first girl Bellamy’s ever been serious about. And, the truth is, they haven’t been together that long, he might not be ready to spend the holidays with her. It might be too much.

But. He surprises her, tightening his arms and pressing his lips to her skin. 

“You could spend Christmas here, you know.”

“Yeah?” She turns around in his arms. 

Bellamy’s eyes are soft but serious, “Yeah.” 

Clarke brings her hand up to his neck and slides her fingers into his soft hair. His forehead knocks against hers softly and she smiles, “I’d love that.” 

Bellamy lets out a relieved breath and kisses her, happiness light on his lips.

The sinking afternoon sun filters through the window and outlines Bellamy in gold. He’s a paradox—bright light and dark lines converge on his skin. He’s the black ink of tattoos and the faint stain of freckles. He’s soft brown eyes and a sharp jaw. He’s easy smiles broken apart by stuttered expletives. He’s the rough scrape of teeth followed by a careful touch. 

(Bellamy’s a riddle she’ll never be finished solving. But Clarke can’t wait to spend her life trying.)

* * *

Wells arrives a few days before Christmas and, on Christmas Eve, he, Raven, and Clarke include Bellamy and Octavia in their long-standing tradition. 

It started when Clarke and Raven were sophomores in high school, a year after Raven had moved to town and Wells and Clarke’s duo became a trio. That year, on Christmas Eve, Raven had showed up at Clarke’s house, looking for shelter during one of her mother’s binges. Wells’ always spent Christmas at Clarke’s and they welcomed Raven without a second thought.

Raven had been frustrated about missing out on Noche Buena. Before her aunt passed away, she’d always spend the night before Christmas at her aunt’s house, regardless of the state her mother was in. There, Noche Buena was celebrated with a party and it was one of the few nights a year that Raven had always loved. 

That first night, three years ago, Wells and Clarke hadn’t been able to recreate most of the Noche Buena traditions, but, instead, the three of them started a tradition of their own.

They ordered more take out than they could ever possibly eat, drank ponche (which Raven eventually figured out how to make—after a few disgusting attempts), and at midnight they all exchanged gifts. 

(It was Clarke’s favorite part about Christmas—it made her feel warm, loved. As opposed to Christmas Day, when her mother would always make her dress up for a series of stiff parties and formal dinners.)

At the Blakes’, they spike the ponche with rum, and spend the night in smiles, stuffing themselves with food and enjoying one another’s company.

Clarke falls asleep with her head on Wells’ shoulder and her fingers twined with Raven’s, filled with the kind of warmth only family can bring.

* * *

Christmas day is spent in pajamas watching Christmas movies on cable—Bellamy and Octavia’s tradition. 

Clarke spends the day curled beside Bellamy on the couch, absent-mindedly twirling the gift he gave her around her thumb—it’s a silver ring engraved with a quote of Van Gogh’s about Starry Night. _I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream._

When they turn in for the night, Bellamy’s mouth tastes like countless cups of hot chocolate and there’s laughter on his lips. Clarke can’t remember the last Christmas she spent this happy. 

* * *

They celebrate New Year’s Eve across the hall. 

Miller and Murphy throw a party. It’s cheap champagne and hot stickiness from a mix of beer, sweaty bodies, and sweet smoke.

At midnight, Clarke kisses Bellamy and rings in the new year full of the naive hope of a heart blinded by love.

* * *

 

It’s a blissfully calm break. Clarke spends most days lost in a book, her feet in Bellamy’s lap. 

Reality crashes down the Sunday before classes resume. 

Wells is back in California and Clarke and Raven are eating dinner at the Blakes’ apartment. Bellamy’s over at Miller’s looking for beer when Octavia mentions there’s a fight this week and Clarke can’t help the way she tenses. 

She doesn’t say anything, but Octavia doesn’t let the moment pass.

“You have something to say, Clarke?” 

Raven says Octavia’s name softly, trying to placate her, but Octavia’s eyes flash like the blade of a knife—sharp and unforgiving.

“No, I get it, the _princess_ has a problem with how my brother makes a living. Sorry, we don’t all have mother’s who can pay our way through life.”

“Octavia!” Raven snaps. 

Her best friend squares to defend her, but Clarke doesn’t let her. This isn’t her fight.

Clarke’s nails dig into her palms. She meets Octavia’s gaze with steel in her own.

“You’re right, I don’t think Bellamy should fight.”

“Well, you don’t get to decide that. You don’t own him.”

Clarke grits her teeth, “I know that. And I’m not telling him what to do. But that doesn’t mean I think he needs to risk his life for money. There are other things he can do.”

Octavia’s laugh is bitter, “Stick to what you know, Princess.” She spits Bellamy’s nickname for Clarke like an insult.

Bellamy picks that moment to return to the apartment, Miller and Murphy in tow. 

Clarke swallows and Octavia doesn’t say anything. Bellamy’s brow puckers but no one mentions the tension in the room. 

Dinner manages to pass without incident, but Clarke notices the edgy space between Raven and Octavia. She distracts herself by spending most of dinner talking to Miller.

When she catches her eye, Clarke shoots Raven an apologetic look, but Raven’s response is soft. “Not your fault,” she mouths.

Clarke jumps when Bellamy brushes a hand against her knee. 

“You okay?” he whispers, his breath pushing a curl across her forehead.

She nods, but she doesn’t quite look at him and turns her attention back to her conversation with Miller.

Shortly after, Clarke excuses herself and locks herself in the bathroom down the hall, taking a much needed moment. 

She knows she’s not being totally reasonable, but even though Bellamy was fine after his last fight, she can’t escape her fear that if Bellamy keeps fighting she might lose him. She thinks of the way he struggled to breathe the night he lost to Dax. She remembers the pain in his eyes, the dried blood on his face. She never wants to see him like that again.

She collects herself and when she gets back to the kitchen, most of the group has moved in front of the TV. 

Octavia’s notably absent and Raven lingers in the kitchen, clearing the food off the table alone. Clarke moves to help.

“I didn’t mean to drag you into this, Rae, I’m sorry.”

Raven looks at her, “Clarke, it’s not your fault. I know Octavia’s protective of Bellamy, but she’s not being reasonable. They’re both blinded by their past. Octavia doesn’t understand why you don’t want him to fight. She doesn’t know what happened to your dad.”

“You can tell her, you know,” Clarke says, sincere, “I don’t want you guys to be fighting because of this. It’s my and Bellamy’s problem. Not yours.”

“What’s your and Bellamy’s problem?” his voice comes behind her and Clarke’s eyes fall shut. 

She turns and meets Bellamy’s soft, brown gaze. She glances to where their friends sit in the living room, occupied by the television.

“Not here.”

Raven squeezes Clarke’s fingers—a soft support—before Clarke turns and leads Bellamy out of the apartment, stopping to grab her coat off the couch.

Outside, the pavement meets her feet. She stares at the remnants of gum on the sidewalk rather than turn and face Bellamy’s look. She melts too easily beneath his eyes. 

The cold air turns her breath white. Bellamy’s boots scuff the ground behind her. The night is dark and empty around them. Almost everyone has returned to campus by now, but it’s cold and no one else is willing to brave the icy air outside. 

Clarke sits down on the curb. It’s dirty and cold as ice through the fabric of her jeans. Cigarette butts litter the ground beneath her chucks. 

Bellamy’s presence feels like a solid wall of warmth when he settles beside her, she has to stop herself from leaning into him.

“What’s going on, Clarke?”

She stares at her hands, “Octavia said there’s a fight on Friday.”

Bellamy stiffens. His silence tells her he already knew.

She closes her eyes and twists her hands in her lap, forcing herself to say the next words even though she knows they won’t make a difference.

“Please don’t go.” 

He makes a frustrated noise. 

“Clarke, I can’t keep having this argument with you. I told you, I have to fight.”

“No, you don’t. Bellamy, I know that when you were younger you didn’t think you had a choice. And maybe you didn’t. But now you could do so much more than your life. Fighting isn’t your only option. I know—”

“Stop,” his voice is harsh. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

He stands up and she follows. He turns his back on her, but she can’t stop the rush of her words.

“I know that risking your life, no matter how good the payout is, isn’t worth it.”

“I know what I’m doing!”

“Well, I don’t! I don’t know what the hell you’re doing. And I can’t keep watching you kill yourself, Bellamy.” 

“I can’t keep watching you kill yourself,” she repeats in a whisper.

Her blood is hot, but her heart feels like ice. She stares at the ground and waits for Bellamy to say something. Anything.

But he’s silent. And she can’t bear to look at him, afraid it might break her.

Tears prick in her eyes, “I can’t lose you.”

His hand finds hers. She sinks into his touch.

“Clarke, look at me,” she swallows and lifts her head to meet his eyes, “I know you’re scared, but this isn’t like what happened with your dad. I can take care of myself.”

He steps into her and her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. His nose is cold against her forehead; his lips move against her temple and when he speaks it’s in a warm whisper.

“Trust me, Clarke. Trust that I know what I’m doing.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, shoves down the fear and foreboding in her belly, and nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, guys, we're entering the home stretch. Right now, my plan is to end the story around chapter 15, but that could always change. 
> 
> Don't forget to leave **kudos & comments** so I know if you guys liked the chapter.


	12. leave me on the tracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art class, Friday morning, and the fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had been hoping to get this chapter out sooner, but, well, life got in the way. Thanks for sticking with me and being patient! 
> 
> It will probably be a while until the next one, but leave a comment if you're still excited about this story!
> 
> (chapter title comes from the song Landfill by Daughter)

When Clarke steps into her 9 am class on Tuesday, just five minutes before class is set to start, her stomach leaps into her throat. 

She’s been excited about this art class for weeks. It was supposed to be the best part of her semester. She was going to cover her hands in charcoal and paint until there were streaks of her soul on her arms. She was going to leave blood and broken bones behind for a few hours and lose herself in color.

This class was supposed to be her distraction from the fighting and violence that she can never seem to outrun. She loves Bellamy, she wouldn’t trade him for anyone else in the world, but that doesn’t make seeing the scrapes on his knuckles and bruises around his eyes any easier. She loves him too much to comfortably sit back and watch him tear himself apart.

Art was supposed to be her escape—her way of running without having to break her promise or leave her heart behind. But the muscular, tattooed man seated beside the only open easel dismantles that hope.

There’s a flash of recognition in Lincoln’s eyes when Clarke drops her bag on the stool and starts pulling out her supplies. She sends him a smile, but it’s stiff.

He just nods. 

Luckily, the professor comes in before there’s any more room for an awkward silence.

Somehow, despite the six foot four reminder beside her, Clarke still manages to get caught up in the scratch of pencil on paper. 

It’s what she loves about art. The world falls away. It becomes just about following the line on paper and creating something where there had been nothing. 

Since it’s the first day, the professor lets them free draw for the last hour. 

Clarke ends up with a pair of familiar hands, a butterfly resting on the forefinger. Delicacy juxtaposed with strength. Like Bellamy, her sketch is a study of opposites. 

(She drew Bellamy without meaning to. She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised.)

When Clarke glances over at Lincoln’s papers, her eyes go wide. She barks out a laugh before she can stifle it, and he startles out of his concentration. He grins at her. 

On his pad, he’s drawn the Lincoln memorial, only this one is wearing a snapback, has a leg thrown over the arm of his chair his hand held up in an obscene gesture. The details are uncanny and the technique is perfect. Clarke keeps glancing over, unable to help herself. 

When the professor dismisses them, Clarke stops Lincoln on his way to the door.

“Not a big fan of your namesake?”

Lincoln rolls his eyes.

“My mom thought it would be cool or edgy to name me after a president. I’ve grown to like my name, but when I was growing up I gained an affinity for drawing presidents. Life’s easier when you make the jokes before anyone else can.”

Clarke nods as she slings her bag over her shoulder. They walk out of the classroom together.

“Do you think you might want to major in art?” Lincoln asks. “You’re good.”

Clarke’s cheeks pink beneath the praise. She’s not used to other people seeing her work. Normally, she’s pretty private about her art, but in a classroom, it’s impossible to hide what you’re doing. 

“I don’t think I’ll major in art, but I want to take as many classes as I can so I’ll probably end up with a minor in it. How about you?”

“Art major all the way. I want to make sure that I have no job prospects.”

She laughs, “I wouldn’t worry too much. There might be a big market for ironic president t-shirts or something.”

Lincoln’s doesn’t look at her, but she catches the edge of a smile when they part ways. Maybe her first impression was wrong. Maybe Bellamy’s not the only person in that ring who has more to them than bloody knuckles and split lips.  


* * *

  
Friday morning, Clarke wakes with terror in her throat. Cold sweat and a loud heartbeat. Her pulse pounds in her ears as the nightmare blurs her gaze. 

She takes a deep breath and shoves her panic down, locking it in the back of her mind. 

It takes her too long to calm down. And once she does, she’s too wired to fall back asleep. Bellamy’s clock blinks red in the still dark room. 6:07 am.

She stares at the ceiling and focuses on Bellamy’s heavy, slow breaths while she waits for morning. Minutes tick by, too slow and too fast, a countdown to the fight tonight.

When morning light finally slices through the shades, Clarke finally lets herself reach out to Bellamy. She drops soft kisses into the hollow of Bellamy’s throat and drags her mouth along his jaw, scraping her teeth lightly against his collarbone when she hears him sigh and start to wake up. 

She presses kisses to his shoulder and lingers on his neck to suck a mark at his pulse point.

Clarke knows Bellamy’s awake when his hands find her hips, fingers sliding easily beneath the waistband of her sleep shorts. 

She kisses him to blind her worry—to deafen her fears. She escapes into his touch.

He tugs at her waistband, humming lazily against her lips. She lets him push her back so he’s hovering over her, his thigh a welcome pressure between her hips. She runs her fingers over his shoulders and down his back, scraping her nails against the bare skin and hard muscle. He groans and maneuvers so he can drag her underwear and shorts down her legs. She lifts her hips to help him, shoving at his boxers when he doesn’t shed them fast enough. 

He presses into her hard against her heat and she gasps. But she needs the control, she needs to control this. Bellamy lets her flips them back over. She swings her leg over Bellamy’s hips, straddling him. She grinds down, delighting in the way his breath stutters against her mouth. He deepens the kiss, sliding his hand into her hair and tracing her mouth with his tongue as his other hand grazes her hip and dips lower.

His fingers trace pleasure on her core and their kisses turn messy as lines him up against her entrance and sinks down. She huffs against his mouth and tries to catch his moans.

She forgets her worry—her countdown—her fear and just feels.

After, she collapses against Bellamy’s chest, unbothered by the dampness beneath her cheek. Her thoughts are murky. But the fears still come flooding back. Bellamy sneaks a hand beneath the sleep shirt she never managed to take off and traces careful circles on her skin. He presses a kiss to her forehead.

“It’ll be okay tonight, Clarke. Nothing’s going to happen,” he tells her, somehow sensing the direction of her thoughts. 

She doesn’t know if she believes him, so instead of answering she presses a kiss to his chest and settles for the one thing she knows is true. 

“I love you.”

He tilts her jaw so she looks at him, eyes dark and sincere.

“I love you, too.”

She wishes she knew how to shut up the voice in her mind that asks how long this can last.  


* * *

  
The room where the fight is set to take place is buzzing and hot when Clarke gets there. She stands on her toes and searches the crowd for Octavia and Raven. They said they’d be by the door, but she can’t find them. Instead, broad shoulders catch her eye.

“Clarke, hi!” Lincoln shouts in greeting over the boisterous crowd.

“Hey Lincoln.”

The cram of bodies is making her skin itch. Clarke switches places with Lincoln, taking shelter in the doorway. He must see some tension in her expression because he takes a step back, using his large presence to give some more room to breathe.

“Not a fan of crowds?”

Clarke shakes her head.

“You look like you’d rather be anywhere but here.”

“Perceptive,” Clarke bites. 

As soon as the words leave her mouth, she feels guilty. It’s not Lincoln fault she’s tense. Lincoln’s a good guy, beneath all that muscle and ink, he’s nothing but softness. Kind eyes and easy smiles. They’re on their way to being friends. On Thursday, they had lunch together after class and it was nice, they have a lot in common and it’s nice talking about her art with someone who gets it. 

“Are you worried about Bellamy?”

Bellamy and Lincoln know each other, but they’re not close. They’re men in similar circumstances. Both just trying to get by with what they’ve got.

She nods in answer to Lincoln’s question. 

“I just… I don’t trust all of this. I don’t trust a situation that forces two people beat each other bloody for profit.”

Lincoln takes a beat before answering.

“Not all of us have a whole lot of options.”

She flinches because it’s the truth. In the end, she doesn’t really understand. Not completely. Clarke’s never been desperate, poor, and hungry. She doesn’t know what it’s like to go without—to be willing to do whatever it takes just for the promise of food in your belly or clothes on your back. 

She sighs and rubs her forehead, “I know that. I do. It’s just—It’s just not easy seeing someone I love hurt themselves and not be able to do something about it.”

Lincoln nods and looks out at the crowd. His next words are quiet, just loud enough that Clarke can hear him, but at a volume that gives them a measure of privacy.

“If it makes you feel any better, Anya’s not a bad person. It’s a risky situation and an even riskier sport, but she runs a tight ship. She always steps in before anything goes too far. She always has a couple of us standing by during fights just in case something does. The crowds are the most dangerous part of these events.”

Clarke looks out at the bodies and bites her lip. 

“Do you know anything about the guy Bell’s fighting tonight?”

Lincoln’s gaze flickers. A bad sign. It’s a moment before he answers.

“He’s a transfer this semester. He’s from a school out west and the rumors are that he’s pretty…intense.”

“Intense?” 

Lincoln’s mouth tightens. 

“Please, it’s better if I know.”

He doesn’t look convinced but goes on anyway.

“There are rumors that Sanchez is unstable. I heard he got kicked out of UCLA for arson.”

Clarke tries to swallow but her throat is thick with worry. 

_He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine._ She repeats the words like a mantra until she can almost convince herself it’s true.

There’s a buzz in the crowd before Clarke can say anything else to Lincoln. Her fear spikes, crowding her heartbeat into her head. It’s bang in her chest and a beat in her ears. 

She pushes forward to the edge of the ring like she does every week, making sure to stand where Bellamy will see her. 

It’s eerie, the way, all of a sudden, the crowd quiets to hum. The energy in the room crackles. Maybe she’s just projecting after waking up every night with a stomach tied in knots, but the crowd feels like it’s reeling for something big.

Anya takes her usual place above the crowd, her megaphone in her hand. 

“First fight night of the year and we’ve got a big show for you. Most of you know the rules, and if you don’t, ask a friend. We all know what we’re here for so let’s get to the good stuff.” The crowd waits when she takes a pause. The look she sweeps across the room, half a warning. “First, we have our returning champ, Bellamy ‘Rebel’ Blake.” The crowd’s cries are deafening. Bellamy steps into the ring, his shoulder are relaxed beneath his black shirt. His gaze flicks to Clarke before he plants his feet. 

Anya continues, “In the other corner, is the man who single-handedly took down one of UCLA’s linebackers. Give it up for Gabriel Sanchez!”

The man who steps into the ring looks nothing like Clarke expected. His hair is bleached white-blonde, and his shoulders are wide, but his body is wiry. 

He tightens his lips around the cigarette in his mouth and then breathes smoke out of his nostrils.

He flicks the still burning stub towards Bellamy. Bellamy’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t move, he grinds the smoke to ash beneath the sole of his boot.

The crowd is brimming with barely restrained anticipation and a couple of guys call out. Anya holds her hands up and the crowd quiets. Electric expectation.

“Same rules as always. First man down for three counts loses. Whenever you're ready boys.” 

Anya steps down from her perch and Clarke's ears ache with the sound of the crowd’s shouts. They’re livid tonight. Loud and vicious. 

It’s not long until first blood. Clarke clenches her teeth when Gabriel’s first clips Bellamy’s jaw and his head snaps to the left. Blood turns his teeth red. 

Bellamy dodges the next blow, and shifts back on his feet before faking right. He lands a solid punch in Gabriel’s stomach with his left, but it doesn’t seem to faze the other man. 

It becomes a dance, both men are quick on their feet and as they circle and dodge, people in the crowd rumble impatiently. They came to see a fight. They came for blood.

Gabriel swings for Bellamy but Bellamy dodges the blow and socks Gabriel in the cheek. The momentum sends Gabriel crashing into a man in the crowd who shoves him off. There’s blood on his shirt.

“What the fuck?!” the man spits, enraged. He moves to shove Gabriel again, but Gabriel spits in his face, bringing a sharp knee to the man’s groin.

Clarke turns her head and sees Anya click her fingers. A moment later, Lincoln is there pulling the two men apart. 

The crowd buzzes, excitement mixing with adrenaline. Gabriel shakes out his fist and turns back to where Bellamy’s waiting, his face a mask of calm. He looks almost bored, but when Gabriel takes a step forward, his fingers twitch. He may look bored, but he’s ready. 

Gabriel strikes out without warning and his knuckles glance Bellamy’s chin. 

Bellamy dodges the next swing and when his opponent stumbles forward, he capitalizes. He gets an arm around Gabriel’s neck, but the man sends a sharp elbow into Bellamy’s torso and Bellamy lets go with a curse. 

Bellamy’s jaw clicks and something hard settles behind his eyes.

Clarke’s caught up in watching Bellamy so she doesn’t notice the fight that breaks out in the crowd until there’s a loud crash as a window breaks. Clarke turns to see three men brawling, bloody from the broken glass. One man gets shoved onto the grass outside. A crowd starts to gather, cheers rising in volume as people split their excitement between two fights simultaneously. 

Lincoln steps in to try to break up the fight, but the men are either drunk on liquor or their own bloodlust because even Lincoln can’t break them up. 

A woman shoves Clarke from behind and some drunk guy stumbles into her. The crowd quickly getting out of control. 

The heat and noise of the room start to suffocate her. Panic crawls up her veins. Another person jostles Clarke and her vision starts to tunnel as her breath shortens. 

Clarke turns back to the main fight just in time to see Gabriel’s fist meet Bellamy’s face. There’s a crunch followed immediately by blood. Bellamy’s brings a hand up and it comes back red. 

He lunges for Gabriel and catches him around the waist, both their bodies hit the floor, but the thud is muffled by the noise of the crowd. They grapple with each other, but Bellamy gets the upper hand, bracketing his knees Gabriel’s shoulders as he lands fist after fist. 

Clarke searches the crowd for Anya. She should be calling it by now. The fight should be over. But Anya’s nowhere to be seen. 

The world goes numb when Clarke hears the sirens. A moment later, red and blue lights flicker across the room and color the crowd. 

_Police._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys liked the scenes with Lincoln, I wanted some more of him after the sad mess that is canon. 
> 
> Leave a comment if you're excited about the next chapter! Comments are the ultimate way of letting me know if you're enjoying this story <3
> 
> (As always, you can also come find me on [my tumblr](http://antebellamy.tumblr.com/). I'm there a lot.)


	13. things can get ugly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long since I updated guys! I just couldn't get the chapter quite right. It will be another few weeks until the next update since I'm going to be traveling, but once I get back I'm hoping to get the last few chapters posted. (Sometime near the end of June.)
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me and make sure to leave a comment if you enjoy the chapter!
> 
> *Disclaimer: I don't know anything or presume to know anything about what it would actually like to be arrested. This is total fiction.
> 
> (Chapter title from Bloodsport by Raleigh Ritchie.)

Loud sirens and lights swarm the room. Clarke barely has a chance to react before every person crammed in the musty room makes a break for it. She gets caught in the current of people shoving for the door and her vision wavers as she tries to stay upright despite the shoves from all sides. 

Panic starts to wrap its clammy fingers around Clarke’s throat. An elbow catches her in the cheek and her head snaps to the side. Her teeth snap together and pain lances through her skull, but through the din and through the pain she hears someone call her name.

She twists around and her eyes find Bellamy. There’s blood ringing his nose and crusting on his shirt. Red and blue police lights make it look almost black. Bellamy’s hair is stuck to his forehead and his eyes are panicked as he tries to push towards her through the mass of bodies, but trying to move against the current of the crowd is useless. Clarke gets jostled again and she loses sight of him. He reappears still too far away. 

She sees Bellamy’s mouth move but his voice gets drowned out when police officers shove into the room, their badges drawn and their faces hard. 

Bellamy is still trying to get to her and she sees him in slices—matted curls, tattooed arms, and dried blood—between the bobbing heads, shouts, and chaos that fill the room. He doesn’t notice the officer come up behind him. He doesn’t hear Clarke call out, her warning swallowed by the crowd.

She loses sight of him again when a large hand wraps around her wrist. She tenses and twists, trying to pull away before realizing the hand belongs to Lincoln. 

“Clarke!” he shouts over the noise—over the yells, over the sirens, over the loud beat of her heart. “We have to get out of here!”

She trips and strains to see over the crowd, but Bellamy’s nowhere in sight. The room is starting to go fuzzy as panic claws at her chest. She barely registers Lincoln guiding her through the crush of bodies. He leads towards the opposite wall, away from the door where she last saw Bellamy now flooded with badges and shouts. 

Clarke barely keeps hold of her quickly-fraying calm, she keeps turning to look behind her, but Bellamy’s gone. Lincoln cuts through the crowd quickly until they find a door. They stumble out into a dank, dusty hallway that leads further into the crumbling brick building. But Lincoln seems to know the way, Clarke stumbles past uncovered pipes and wires peeking out of the plaster. 

Echoes of yells and sirens follow them. Clarke’s pulse trips and stutters until, finally, they spill out into a dark alleyway. 

As soon as the fresh cold air hits her, Clarke folds forward. She braces her hands on her knees and sucks icy air into her lungs to keep herself from the falling into a full-blown panic. Cold sweat dries on the back of her neck. 

She steadies herself before she’s ready. Her fingers tremble before she curls them into fists.

Lincoln watches from a few feet away. Far enough to give her room. Concern plates his features.

“You okay?” he says after a beat of silence full of nothing but Clarke’s heavy, slow breaths.

She nods. She’s not quite there yet, but she’ll be okay in a few minutes. But, like she’s magnetized to him, Clarke’s mind snaps back to Bellamy. Her nails dig into her palms as once again panic starts to slide up her throat.

“Bellamy…” she starts.

“Clarke,” Lincoln says her name like it’s an apology. “I saw a police officer cuff Bellamy. He got arrested.”

Her fists white-knuckle by her sides. _One breath in, one breath out. Repeat._

“How did the police even find out about the fight? I thought you said Anya kept a tight ship,” anger clips Clarke’s words even though she knows this isn’t Lincoln’s fault. He’s just another player in this game.

But Lincoln blows by the ire in her words, “Clarke,” he says slowly, “It’s not safe here. We need to go before police start scanning the area. I can explain what happened on the way.”

A siren whines in the background as if to back up his words. Clarke nods. She knows he’s right. 

She falls in beside him, hurrying to keep pace with his long strides. They turn onto a dark street. It’s past midnight and this time of night, everything’s closed and shuttered. Aside from the fading noise behind them, it feels like a ghost town.

Lincoln clears his throat before he starts. 

“The building we were in used to be a restaurant, but it got closed down a couple months ago. Tonight was the first time we were using it for a fight. It should have been fine, but the crowd tonight was too big, they got out of hand. My guess is that one of the neighbors heard the window break and called the cops.”

He sighs, rubbing his forehead.

“This hasn’t happened in years, Anya’s pretty good at picking locations and keeping the police out of our business.” Lincoln pauses on the sidewalk and Clarke jolts to a stop a beat later. 

His eyes are sympathetic, “Bellamy will to be okay, Clarke.”

She swallows, not sure what to say. (Not sure if she believes him.) They walk down the street in silence. Further from the sirens, but further from Bellamy, too. 

_One breath in, one breath out. Repeat._

Clarke’s phone buzzes in her jeans. She pulls it out, Raven’s picture flashing across the screen. A split second later the phone is pressed to her ear.

“Rae?”

“Clarke, _thank god_. Are you okay? Where are you?” 

After she talks to Raven, she and Lincoln change course to meet Raven and Octavia at The Dropship, the bar a few blocks away. 

Raven pulls Clarke into a firm hug when she sees her. Clarke clutches Raven back just as tight.

Music leaks out in bursts as people come out of the bar, going about their night like it’s any other. The streetlights above them buzz as they cast the world in orange.

Octavia doesn’t look up from where she’s pacing behind Raven, her whole body looks like a rubber band pulled too tight and about to snap. 

Raven pulls back, but she keeps her hands on Clarke’s shoulders, “Do you know what happened to Bellamy?”

At her brother’s name, Octavia looks over, noticing Clarke and Lincoln for the first time. Her eyes settle on Lincoln.

Clarke glances between them before answering Raven. She swallows, “He got arrested.”

The worry on Octavia’s face drops, something hard as stone takes its place. 

“This never should have happened,” she spits, fury festering behind her eyes. “You were supposed to be there to protect Bellamy. You were supposed to help!”

Raven hand locks around Octavia's forearm when she raises it to hit Lincoln. Raven pulls her back and steps in front of Octavia, forcing her girlfriend to look at her.

When she speaks, Raven’s voice is cold.

“Octavia, I know you’re upset, but this is _not_ Lincoln’s fault and you know that.” 

Raven releases her grip on Octavia’s arm and drops her hand to her side. Her fingers curl and flex. Her eyes are hot with anger, but her voice is cold.

“It’s not okay to lash out just because you’re angry. It’s not okay to _hit someone_ just because you’re mad.” Raven’s jaw clicks, “If you ever, _ever_ raise your hand against another person like that again then you and I are through.”

The fight drains out of Octavia at Raven’s words. Clarke knows that Raven told Octavia about her mom, but she doesn’t think Octavia really understood until now. 

Octavia bites her cheek and nods, stiff.

Raven turns to Clarke, still tense. Anger bubbles beneath her skin, but her voice is calm. 

“We should head to the apartment.”

Clarke lingers beside Lincoln while Octavia and Raven slide into Raven’s car.

Lincoln has been quiet through the whole exchange with Octavia, she wants to apologize, but it’s not her place. Instead, she says: “Thanks for helping me get out of there tonight.” 

He shakes his head, “Not a problem. I should probably go try to figure out what’s going on now that the craziness has probably died down.” 

There’s a pause and then, “I’ll let you know if we get any news about Bellamy,” he says gently.

Clarke nods and swallows against the lump in her throat. 

…

At the Blake’s apartment, Miller comes over when he hears them get home. It turns out that the police showing up at the fight has been all over the college’s social media. 

Miller takes one look at the group and heads straight to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. Clarke follows him as Raven pulls Octavia aside. 

She leans against the counter beside Miller, watching as he bustles around the kitchen like it’s his own.

“Everything okay between those two?” he asks.

Clarke looks over, relieved to see Raven press a soft kiss to her girlfriend’s mouth. It’s hard when both people in a relationship burn so bright, but Raven and Octavia are good for each other. They know when to pull back and when to be strong.

Clarke turns back to Miller, “I think so.”

“And you? Are you okay?”

Clarke pushes up to sit on the cold tile of the counter, her heels knock against the cabinets.

“I just need to know if Bellamy’s okay.”

Raven had explained the situation to Miller when he arrived. On the drive over, she and Clarke had agreed that if Bellamy was going to use his one phone call on anyone, it would be one of them three. Now, all that’s left is waiting for the phone to ring.

Miller nods and hands Clarke a mug of hot coffee. It’s already fixed just the way she likes: cream, no sugar.

She knocks her foot against Miller’s thigh, “What’s going on in your life?”

Miller laughs without mirth, “You want to talk about my life? Now?”

Clarke looks down at her mug and nods, “I need something to distract me.” 

Miller sighs but he jumps up on the counter beside her. He tells her about his classes. He tells her about running into his ex-boyfriend earlier in the week and how it didn’t hurt like he expected. He mentions that there might be someone else, the boy he sits behind in his class about Shakespeare. Clarke smiles at the way Miller goes gruff and he changes the subject a little abruptly after that confession.

It’s almost two am and Clarke, fading, her eyes feel heavy despite the many cups of coffee. Octavia and Raven are on the couch, but she and Miller haven’t moved from their perch. She’s just laid her head on Miller’s shoulder when the loud trill of her ringtone blares.

Clarke scrambles for the phone beside her, dropping to the ground, as Raven and Octavia rush into the kitchen. Clarke barely glances at the caller ID, but she registers the words Ark Police Station before she swipes her thumb and answers the call

“Bellamy?” she asks, breathless.

“Clarke—Clarke—are you okay?”

The knot tied around her heart eases when she hears his voice. Frantic, but familiar.

“I'm okay, I'm fine”

“And Octavia?”

Clarke glances at the girl standing in front of her, looking half wild. She pulls the phone from her ear and sets it to speaker.

“Octavia’s right here, Bellamy. I have you on speaker. Are you okay? What happened?”

Bellamy’s sigh of relief is audible through the receiver. “I'm fine, the police have been questioning me for the past hour. I’m the only person directly involved with the fight ring they managed to arrest so they're trying to get me to take a plea deal. That's why my bail is so high.”

“How much is it?” Octavia’s voice is strained, but she looks less frenzied now that she knows that Bellamy is okay.

“Five thousand.”

“Fuck, Bell, we can’t afford five thousand dollars.”

“I know.” 

On the other end of the line, Bellamy sounds tired. He sounds like a man who lost his hope. 

He lowers his voice, “The police want me to rat out the person in charge. They said that if I tell them who it is, they’ll let me go…” he trails off and Clarke understands. They’re making Bellamy choose between himself and Anya, the woman who saved him. And Clarke already knows who he’s going to pick.

She takes a deep breath, “What if—”

“I’m not taking the deal, Clarke. She saved me. She saved Octavia. I know you don't get it, but I don't know where we'd be without her. I'm not going to repay that with a betrayal.”

Octavia’s goes rigid beside her.

“I know, Bellamy, I wasn't going to ask you to take the deal. But we’re not going to leave you in there, either. I was going to suggest we ask Wells to lend us the money.”

There’s a long silence as both Bellamy and their friends react to the suggestion. Bellamy’s sigh crackles like white noise across the receiver.

“I don’t know…”

Octavia clears her throat. Her gaze is soft when she meets Clarke’s eyes.

“Bell, I don’t think we have a choice. I think you should let Clarke call Wells.”

Clarke’s reaches for Octavia’s hand and the Octavia clasps her fingers tightly. Whatever tension was between them is long gone. 

...

Wells agrees without a second thought. _Whatever you need, Clarke, it’s yours_. And, bit by bit, the burden on Clarke’s shoulders eases. 

...

The next morning, Clarke and Miller pick up Bellamy’s car from where it’s parked a few blocks away from the location of last night’s fight and drive it to the police station to pick him up. They wait outside, two portable coffee mugs clutched in their hands. 

At 8:02 exactly, Bellamy pushes out the station’s doors. He looks exhausted and there’s a bruise yellowing on his chin from his opponent last night, but otherwise he seems okay. 

Clarke lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding and runs to meet him halfway. Bellamy’s arms curl around her and he buries his face in her hair. Her fingers knot in his curls and his lips press into her shoulder. They stand there for a long moment before pulling away. When they do, Bellamy presses his lips softly to her temple over the blue bruise from where someone’s elbow snapped into her head. He doesn’t say anything, but his fingers tighten and he wraps an arm around her shoulders, unwilling to let go of her completely. 

He shoots Miller a weak smile when he sees him. Miller claps Bellamy on the shoulder and Clarke notices the way tightness in Miller’s shoulders has eased. 

Miller drives them home since Bellamy is too tired to get behind the wheel and doesn’t seem ready to let go of Clarke anytime soon.

Clarke hands Bellamy her coffee and settles for taps her fingers against the door. As they drive home, it starts to rain. Drops of water hit the windshield. No one turns on the radio, they just sit in safe silence and listen to drops crash and break.

...

Bellamy pulls Clarke into his bedroom and into the bed beside him as soon as they get home. Clarke curls her fingers into his t-shirt, but it smells like cigarettes and sweat. It doesn’t smell like Bellamy. Bellamy gets off and peels off his clothes. He hasn’t showered since last night, but he just slides on fresh clothes and drops on the mattress beside Clarke. He reaches out and they curl together again, this time Bellamy’s chest smells like laundry. There’s a lot to say, but they just lie there in silence. Bellamy’s heart beating beneath Clarke’s ear and his fingers playing with the ends of her hair until they both drift into sleep.

...

Clarke wakes up before Bellamy, he rouses when she tries to untangle herself, but she just presses a kiss to his cheek and whispers that she’s going to get coffee. He mumbles some words she can’t catch, slipping back into sleep.

The bedroom door closes behind her with a snick.

It’s early afternoon, but there’s a pot of coffee in the kitchen, courtesy of Miller. She’s just poured cream into her cup when a throat clears behind her.

Clarke turns to find Raven facing her. Her best friend looks solemn and Clarke has a feeling she knows where this conversation will lead.

“Octavia’s been talking to lawyers all day,” Raven starts, “She’s going to talk to Bellamy once he wakes up, but it doesn’t look good. Between bail, legal fees, and the cost of the halfway decent lawyer Bellamy desperately needs, it’s going to cost a lot of money. A lot of money nobody has. Octavia doesn’t know what to do.”

Clarke meets Raven’s eyes. She already knows Raven has thought of a solution. Same as Clarke.

“It’s not our only option, Clarke,” Raven whispers.

“You and I both know that’s not true, Rae.” 

Clarke’s been running for so long, it’s time she turned and faced her fight.

...

She heads into the hallway to make the call. Her fingers are slick as she dials the number she still knows by heart, even after all these years.

The person on the other end picks up on the second ring.

Clarke takes a deep breath.

“Mom? I need your help.”


	14. we're still a team

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _things can get ugly, but we're still a team._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter left now! Please leave a comment if you like the chapter!
> 
> Thank you for sticking with this. It really means a lot <3
> 
> (chapter title from Bloodsport by Raleigh Ritchie)

Clarke’s chucks squeak on the cream colored marble floor when she steps into the hotel lobby. Her hands are shaking and she can’t tell if it’s from the cold or her nerves. Rainwater splashes the floor when she pushes back her hood. It puddles around her shoes, marring the lobby’s near perfect interior.

High ceilings arch above her and a chandelier hangs in the center of the room, its crystals casting refracted light across the floor. The room is decorated with marble and furnished oak. Antiquated in a way that speaks to flutes of champagne and necks weighed down with jewels. Clarke knows she looks out of place in her ripped black skinny jeans, her hair pulled into a messy bun on her head. The receptionist behind the desk gives her a disdainful look once she takes in Clarke’s water-logged appearance. 

Clarke leaves her umbrella by the stand next to the door. She catches sight of her reflection in one of the mirrors in the lobby. Her curls are speckled with raindrops and her eyeliner is smudged beneath her eyes in a way that might seem purposeful. She’s wearing one of Bellamy’s t-shirts. It’s big on her, and tattered, the collar slipping to reveal the black lace of her bra, but Clarke doesn’t move to fix it. Instead, she walks up to the counter like she owns the place. She spent years practicing this act. She knows the drill.

“I’m here to see Abby Griffin,” she states, her voice clipped without being rude.

At her mother’s name, the receptionist’s back goes ramrod straight, her entire demeanor changing from dismissive to accommodating. The receptionist tells Clarke her mother’s floor and room number after calling up to the room and waves her through to the elevator. Clarke can feel the receptionist’s eyes on her back. She can practically hear the questions. But she keeps her stony mask on and steps inside the elevator. She only lets her shoulders slump once the doors close behind her.

Even though Clarke’s mother flew to her, the hotel still feels like her mom's terf. But instead of tying more knots in Clarke’s stomach, the display of wealth just succeeds in replacing her anxiousness with anger. Because all this money just reminds Clarke of the worst parts about growing up. Of empty rooms and lonely dinner parties. Itchy dresses and shoes that pinched. It reminds her of just how easy it would have been for her mother to help her dad when he needed it. And how she stepped aside instead. 

She takes the elevator up to the top floor of the hotel, facing her own reflection in the metal doors, thankful for the moment to regroup. It’s been two weeks since Clarke called her mother, crowded into a corner with no other choice. In that time Clarke hasn’t managed to come up with any other alternatives for getting the money Bellamy needs. He doesn’t know she’s here, but she knows what he’d say. She knows that he’d hate it. She knows he’d argue that this wasn’t the only way. But it is. Clarke’s mother is the only option they have left. Unfortunately, that fact doesn’t stop guilt from filling her lungs like smoke

The day after the police bust, Bellamy had gone to talk to Anya hoping he could get in on another fight to win the money he needed only to return empty handed and red-eyed. Anya was paranoid about staging fights after the bust, everyone was. People didn’t want to go to a match when it might mean getting arrested.

In the week that followed, Miller managed to get Bellamy a job at the bar where he worked part time. And since then, Bellamy’s been at The Dropship almost every night, working crazy hours and long shifts. 

Every night this week, he’s come home just before dawn, collapsing into bed for a couple hours at a time before getting up again to go to class. And in just two weeks, Clarke can see how his new schedule is taking its toll.

The bruises from the last fight have faded, his ribs are all healed, but there are circles beneath his eyes and there’s tension in his shoulders that never seems to ease. He’s exhausted. From his new job. From his new worries. From the weight of the responsibilities that keep piling up. It’s too much. Too much and even with Octavia and Raven and Clarke all pitching in, it’s still not enough. They don’t have enough money and they all know it. That’s why Clarke is here, in the last place she wants to be. She’d tear down mountains if that’s what it took to save Bellamy.

She meets her own eyes in the reflection on elevator doors and resets her mask, shoulders straightening, mouth folding into a hard line. Not one chink in her armor. 

When the elevator doors open, two of her mother’s men are waiting for her.

Clarke recognizes one of them as someone she used to patch up when she was in high school and her mother didn’t want her guys at the hospital raising questions. He smiles, but she can’t return the look. She nods instead, handing them her raincoat and following the two men down the hall. 

Into a room that’s all gold. Gold couches, gold tables, a gold vase holding gold flowers. Clarke’s skin itches at the sight of all the opulence. At the careless display of wealth. She thinks of Bellamy and how he struggled. He was right when he told her she’d never _get it_. 

Her mother’s voice filters through the doors on the right side of the room and Clarke assumes she’s on the phone. It's a sound she’s familiar with. When she was little, Clarke used to sit outside her mother’s office to wait, but as she grew older she learned it was of little use. With her mother, business always came first. 

One of the guards knocks twice on the door and her mother’s voice cuts off.

A moment later, Abby Griffin steps into the foyer. Exactly how Clarke remembered. Hair pinned back. A crisp, perfectly tailored suit. No wrinkles. She walks over until she’s in front of Clarke. Her hands coming up to cup her face. 

Clarke stiffens, but she doesn’t pull away. She’s familiar with her mother’s cold hands. That’s how she remembers her mother: cold hands. Cold hands yanking her up when she slipped in the dining room because she was running. A cold hand smacking her cheek when Clarke spilled paint on a business account. A cold hand in hers at her father’s funeral, refusing to let Clarke pull away. There was never anything warm about her mother.

She’s not surprised nothing has changed.

“Clarke, it’s been so long. I missed you.” Her mother’s voice sounds sincere, but Clarke has a hard time believing it. Her mother has always been manipulative, unafraid to use any tools at her disposal. Clarke just doesn’t know what she wants yet. 

She pulls away from her mother’s grip slowly, holding tight to her mask—her armor—making sure to keep it in place. 

“I’m surprised you came all the way down here. I know you’re busy.”

Abby stiffens and straightens, “Well, seeing as how this is the first time you’ve reached out since you moved to Virginia, I figured I’d better make the most of the opportunity...” Her lips purse, “It’s been ten months, Clarke. Didn’t you miss me at all?”

Clarke doesn’t respond. Not knowing what her mother wants from her makes her skin itch and stomach spin. She suppresses the urge to dig her fingernails into her palm and swallows. When she speaks, her voice is calm. 

“You said that if I came to see you, you’d unfreeze my accounts. I’m here.”

Her mother sighs, a long drawn out sound. Clarke doesn’t miss the way her mother’s sharp eyes take in Bellamy’s t-shirt, long and threadbare on her frame.

Her mother tilts her head. “I’m worried about you, Clarke.” 

Clarke resists the urge to snap. Because now her mother is worried. Now. 

Her mother didn’t _worry_ about Clarke during the divorce. She didn’t _worry_ when Clarke didn’t see her father for months. She didn’t _worry_ when her father died. And her father didn’t just die. Her father was _killed_ while her mother didn’t even lift a finger to stop it. And Clarke doesn’t think she’ll ever forget the pictures she found on her mother’s desk. She can’t ever forget how the police found him on the side of the road, barely recognizable.

No, her mother didn’t even _notice_ the way Clarke spiraled after her father’s death or how close she came to a dangerous ledge when Lexa left. Her mother never noticed—never cared—and it feels unbelievably unfair that her mother is choosing _now_ to act like she has reason to be worried. Now, that Clarke is happy—that she’s surrounded by the people she loves. Now, that Clarke finally has her feet underneath her. It’s disgustingly ironic that it’s her mother’s worry is here now that she no longer wants it or needs it.

Clarke clenches her jaw to keep herself from saying something that will ruin her only shot at helping Bellamy. Her hands curl into fists but otherwise, she keeps herself collected. She waits as her mother continues.

“I had a couple people look into you and it seems like you’ve gotten yourself involved with a…troublesome crowd. I’m talking about this Bellamy Blake you’re seeing, of course.”

Clarke stiffens at the sound of Bellamy’s name in her mother’s mouth. She’d known her mother would look into her life, but knowing what’s coming and facing it are two very different things.

“He’s gotten in quite a lot of trouble over the years, hasn’t he? Both he and his sister, Octavia. He was only ten when—”

“Stop,” Clarke bites, her calm slipping for a moment. 

She’s not going to listen to her mother calmly outline Bellamy’s past. Reduce him to figures and facts. Clarke knows Bellamy. Clarke loves him. Her mother doesn’t get to do a background check and pretend like that means she knows who Bellamy is or what he’s been through.

“I don’t care what you found on him, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Oh, but you should care, Clarke,” her mother replies, her voice as cold as her hands were. “You want access to your accounts to help this boy… don’t you?”

Clarke stares at her mother for a long moment before nodding.

“Well, I don’t know that that’s a very good idea. Who’s to say there won’t be another incident later on. This might be the first time he’s gotten arrested, but it doesn’t seem likely to be the last. How am I supposed to know this boy isn’t just using you for your money?”

Clarke sucks in a slow breath through her nose and lets it slowly out her mouth.

“What do you want me to say, mom?”

“Say you’ll break up with this boy.”

Fire boils in her belly. “That’s not going to happen.” 

Her mother pinches her nose and looks away. 

“I figured you’d probably that, but I thought I’d try anyway. But, Clarke, if you want to me to unfreeze your accounts I’m still going to need something in return. Collateral, let’s call it.”

“Collateral,” Clarke says slowly.

“Yes, if you want me to unfreeze your accounts, you have to agree to my terms.”

Clarke’s eyes narrow, wary, “What are the terms?”

“Your Lexa—” Clarke recoils at her mother’s use of ‘your’, “—has been making waves. She’s had a surprising amount of success since taking over when her father passed away. And it seems she wants to be…business associates with me.”

Dread climbs up her throat, “What does does that have to do with me?”

“Well, Clarke, she specifically suggested that we use _you_ as a liaison.”

Clarke’s world fades to white noise.

 

…

 

When Clarke gets back to the apartment, it’s dark. The bar closes early on Sunday nights and Bellamy is already asleep in bed when she cracks open the door.

He stirs when he hears her come in, rubbing his eyes.

“Where’ve you been?” he rasps.

“I can tell you tomorrow,” she replies, leaning over to pressing a kiss into his warm, pillow-creased cheek. 

She likes Bellamy like this. Soft. Sleepy. When all his walls are down. He sighs and pulls Clarke back down, his mouth slanting over hers in a slow kiss. Her toes curl and a sigh slips through her lips. Bellamy’s mouth turns up in a smile, he drags his nose along her cheekbone.

“I’ve missed you lately. I barely see you anymore,” he breathes between kisses. He keeps the pace slow, both of them content to just kiss without it leading anywhere. 

“That’s because you’re working all the time.”

Between Bellamy’s job bartending at The Dropship, Clarke’s job at the library, and all the school work they both have to keep up with it feels like it’s been forever since they’ve seen each other. Really seen each other. The way they used to. They sleep in the same bed every night and chase relief when they manage to get a moment, but it’s not the same. Clarke misses it too.

“You could come visit me at work some time,” Bellamy murmurs, dragging his fingers down her spine, “The back room is usually empty when I go on break.” 

“You sure know how to make a girl feel special,” she teases, tone wry. Bellamy laughs and Clarke kisses him, not caring that she might be proving her own point wrong. 

They’re silent for a long time after that, only sound the sound Clarke’s sighs and Bellamy’s breaths breaking the quiet as they kiss and kiss and kiss.

Her encounter with her mother has left her edgy and off-kilter. Even Bellamy’s mouth isn’t quite enough to put her at ease so she gets greedier.

Clarke drags her mouth across Bellamy’s jaw and down his neck to bite the skin around his collarbone. She pushes him back so she can straddle his hips, grinding down and grinning when he groans.

She kisses him again, this time more desperately, trying to blur her thoughts, hide her worries, blind her fears. 

But Bellamy knows her too well. And he brings his hand to her chin, pulling back slowly. The room is dark, but even in the shadows, Clarke sees Bellamy’s brow pucker and his mouth twist.

She waits for him to speak first. 

“What’s wrong?” Bellamy’s voice takes on a slight edge. “Clarke, where were you today?”

She’s not going to lie to him. She’d just been hoping to avoid this truth a little longer.

She slides off and collapses on the mattress beside Bellamy. The bed bounces, making her shirt ride up. Bellamy’s warm hand slides across the bare skin. She presses her hand on top of his, fingers sliding into the spaces between his.

He repeats the question softly when she looks at him, “Where were you?”

“With my mom.” Bellamy’s hand tenses beneath her own and she tightens her grip on his fingers, “She’s staying at The Coronado in town,” she says, referring the upscale hotel where she met her mom earlier.

Bellamy doesn’t break her gaze. “Why is she here?” 

“Because I called her,” she brushes Bellamy’s curls back on his forehead, “I need her to unfreeze my accounts so we can afford your legal fees.”

Bellamy pulls away sharply. The bed creaks as he gets up. A moment later, there’s a click and the lights turn on. Clarke sits up, blinking against the sudden brightness.

When her eyes adjust, Bellamy’s still standing by the light switch. Tension hard in every line of his body. He looks like he swallowed knives. 

She gets off the bed and moves to stand in front of him. 

Her heart is loud, but her voice is soft.

“Bellamy.” She wants to reach for him, but she’s afraid he might back away.

“I didn’t—You shouldn’t— _Fuck_ ,” he takes a steadying breath, and stares at the carpet, “Clarke, I’m not good for you. Maybe—” he swallows “—maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore.”

The air goes still and stiff. Clarke doesn’t say anything and Bellamy stares at the floor. She takes a step forward and she’s relieved when Bellamy doesn’t step back.

“Look at me,” she whispers. 

Bellamy swallows and lifts his head to meet her eyes. He looks torn, guilty, sad. But not sure. She steps forward and takes his hand. She brings it up and places it over her heart so Bellamy can feel the steady beats—so he knows she’s not lying when she says the next words.

“Bellamy, I love you. And I don’t care if you don’t think you’re good for me because I know better,” he opens his mouth to speak, but Clarke doesn’t give him a chance to dismiss her words, “You have the biggest heart of anyone I know. You’d do anything for the people you love, but what you don’t realize is that we all feel the same way about you. I’d walk through fire for you. I’ll face my mom a hundred times if that’s what it takes.”

He leans his forehead against hers, “You shouldn’t have to do this,” he breathes.

She kisses the corner of his mouth, a whisper, a promise. 

“If we figure out another way, we’ll take it. But, right now, this is how I’m helping. This is what I can do.”

Bellamy pulls her in and wraps his arms around her. She presses her lips to his chest and he presses his lips to her forehead.

“What does your mom want you to do?”

Clarke stiffens and Bellamy feels it. She lets out a shaky breath.

“She wants me to negotiate with Lexa for her.”

Bellamy’s arms tense. His fingers dig into her shoulders.

But he doesn’t say anything, he just pulls back, tips her chin up, and kisses her hard and deep.

When he pulls away, they’re both breathing hard. 

“I’m going to figure out a way around this. I’m going to find another way.”

She doesn’t see how, but she can tell he means it. She kisses him and tugs him towards the bed. She pulls him down on top of her and, for a few hours, they lose themselves in each other. Hot breath, greedy fingers, gasps muffled in each other's mouths. Bellamy falls apart with Clarke's mouth around him. Clarke unravels with Bellamy’s fingers inside her. They lose themselves in stuttered breaths and skipping heartbeats. 

They lose themselves, but they don’t get lost. They’re found.

 

…

 

Bellamy has a morning class and Clarke rolls out of bed once he leaves. She’s nursing her second cup of coffee when Raven and Octavia emerge from the other room down the hall. Octavia heads to the kitchen to pour them both a coffee while Raven collapses into the chair beside Clarke. 

“Late night?” Clarke asks, smirking. 

Raven turns her head on the table and yawns while flipping her off. Octavia sets down a mug in front of her girlfriend. Raven hums when Octavia runs her fingers through her hair. She lifts her head to take a sip of coffee and the smile she gives Octavia is so sincere it makes Clarke smile too.

“When’s your first class today, Clarke?” Octavia asks, still absently brushing her fingers through Raven’s hair.

“I have Bio at one and then a lab at three.” Octavia grimaces, but Clarke just shrugs. She actually enjoys her classes. “What about you guys?”

Octavia just took a sip of coffee so Raven answers her, “Octavia has class at eleven, but I don’t have anything until four. We’re still on for lunch, right?” 

Raven knows Clarke met with her mom yesterday and Clarke has a feeling she’s probably anxious to know what happened. They’re all worried about the legal fees. Clarke’s appreciates that Raven’s giving her a little time to work things out before she tells Octavia what Clarke’s doing.

“Yeah, of course.” 

She smiles so Raven knows she’s okay. Seeing her mom was hard, but she made it through. And she thinks she can handle this. Or, at least, she hopes she can.

“Well, I have to jump in the shower before class,” Octavia says, shooting Raven a look. 

Clarke clears her throat. She knows that look and she doesn’t particularly want to around to hear her best friend hooking up with her girlfriend. She’s happy for them, but, yeah, that’s a lot. She stands, taking her mug with her.

“I’m gonna head over to Miller’s, I don’t think he has a class until later and it’s been a while since we caught up.”

Raven's laugh follows Clarke out the door.

She spends the morning with Miller, teasing him about his crush on the guy his Shakespeare lecture. 

It’s easy. Fun. They laugh and rib each other, and catching up on each other’s lives while they sip their coffee mixed with pumpkin spice creamer. 

 

…

 

At noon, Murphy gets back from his morning class and Clarke and Raven head to their favorite diner. It’s a small, fifties-style place. The booths are old and worn and there are cracks in the floors, but the waitress is always nice and the tables are always clean. The place is mostly empty when they arrive so they grab a spot by the window. Once they’ve ordered pancakes and eggs, Raven turns her attention to Clarke.

Clarke goes straight to the point.

“My mom agreed to unfreeze my accounts if I agree to be the liaison between her and Lexa.”

Raven’s eyes go wide. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her I’d think about it, but, Rae, I don’t think I have a choice.”

Raven lets out a sigh and rubs her fingers across her forehead, “Yeah, I don’t see a way around this. Are you sure there’s not something else your mom would agree to?”

“It was either this or break up with Bellamy.”

Raven huffs, shaking her head, “Your mom doesn’t fuck around.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

Raven reaches across the table and takes Clarke’s hand. “I’m sorry, Clarke.”

“It’s not your fault. And if this helps Bellamy then it’s worth it.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to handle it? Seeing Lexa? What would being a liaison entail?”

“All my mom said was that I would have to be at their meeting in a couple weeks and then maybe fly to California a couple times after that to meet with Lexa on her behalf.”

“That seems like a lot. That’s giving up a lot of control. And once you’re back there…”

“What other choice do I have?”

Raven pauses. Her fingers flex. 

“I…I don’t know.”

And that’s the problem. Because Clarke doesn’t know either.

 

…

 

Clarke’s just getting back from her lab when she sees Bellamy’s truck pull into his parking space outside the apartment complex. She adjusts the strap of her book bag on her shoulder and waits as he turns off the car and gets out. It takes him a moment to notice Clarke and when he does, his footsteps halt and the corners of his mouth tilt down. He looks uneasy. Clarke tightens her grip on the strap of her bag, suddenly nervous.

“Bellamy? Is everything okay?”

He takes in a long breath and then lets it all out.

“I went to see Anya.”

Clarke’s blood runs cold.

“I told her that I need money and she said that she’s been meeting with some people and—” 

He’s rambling and she can’t quite stand it.

“Get to the point, Bellamy.”

“There’s a fight.”

The world hollows, all she sees is Bellamy. All she can hear is his voice. Everything else is black. 

“Anya’s going to stage this fight as a big one. My last fight. I’ll put all my money in and when I win, you won’t have to go through with this deal with your mom. You won’t owe her anything. One last fight and we’re free. It’s all over.”

But that’s what she’s worried about. That this one last fight might mean it’s all over. For him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you liked this installment and let me know if you're excited to see how the story wraps up! (My _plan_ is to get the last chapter posted by ~~next Sunday~~.)
> 
>  
> 
> Update: the last chapter will be up Monday! (aka July 10th!)


	15. I love you and all of your pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have spent so many minutes and hours and days and nights on this story. But every person who commented or sent love to this story made it all worth it. Thank you for being patient with me as I battled with inspiration and plot to give you the best story I could.
> 
> I hope you like this last chapter. I really do.
> 
> (chapter title from pieces by andrew belle)

“One last fight and it’s all over.”

Bellamy’s words seem to echo, reverberating around Clarke’s skull. _One last fight. One last fight. One last fight._ It takes Clarke a few moments to find her voice. To make sense of the mess of thoughts inside her head. Fear has stolen her coherency.

The edges of her vision blur and she’s absently aware of the way her breath hitches. She senses more than sees Bellamy step forward. His fingers are cool and dry against her chin. She meets his eyes. Brown with just the barest flecks of amber. 

“Clarke, breathe,” he says softly, “It’s going to be okay.”

“You don’t know that,” she replies, shaking her head, “Fighting—fighting is what got you into this mess and now—”

Bellamy kisses Clarke before she spins any further. Before she slides into panic and can’t crawl her way back. She focuses on the soft warm pressure of Bellamy’s lips. On his thumb tracing the curve of her neck. On his slow and steady breaths and the way her heart brakes to match the pace. 

He pulls away before she’s ready but he doesn’t let go.

“I know that fighting is what got me into this mess,” he says. “That’s why this is my last one. Anya wants to use it to draw a bigger crowd and get more money. She’s looking into safer venues and she’s going to have all her other fighters monitoring the crowd,” Bellamy clears his throat, “It’s a risk, I know it is. But I’d rather take this risk than force you into an agreement that’s going to make you miserable. Better the evil you know than the evil you don’t, right?”

Clarke swallows and takes a deep breath before she nods. Without the fear dragging her towards panic, she can see that this is their best option. With her mother, when you give an inch, she takes a mile. It’s a dangerous web to get tangled in. Clarke’s last resort when there wasn’t another way. Now, there is. 

She’s told Bellamy time and again that she trusts him. But trust is just a word if you don’t follow through.

“Okay,” she sighs. When Bellamy kisses her, she smiles weakly. She pulls away and takes his hand, “But… if something goes wrong… if you lose… then, my mom’s agreement is going be our only shot. You know that, right?”

Bellamy nods and tucks her hair behind her ear.

“I’m hoping we never need to cross that bridge.”  


 

* * *

 

  
Clarke knows Bellamy is right. She knows this fight is their best option, but worry isn’t something you can just wipe away. 

The following Friday, Bellamy has a shift at the bar and it’s the first night Clarke’s alone since she found out about the fight. She puts on some music and works on a paper, but uncertainty creeps in anyway. ‘If’s, ‘what if’s, and ‘maybe’s. 

She snaps her laptop shut. She can’t be alone with her thoughts right now. Raven and Octavia are on a date, so Clarke texts Miller, hoping he’s around. She needs another person to focus on. 

He replies with something about a party on Baker street and invites her to join. She doesn’t think twice before agreeing. A party, booze, and a hot house full of distractions sounds like exactly what she needs. 

She texts Bellamy to let him know where she’s going out so he doesn’t worry when he gets back and finds the apartment empty. Then, she gets ready in record time. Slipping into a black dress with triangle cutouts and outlining her eyes with dark liner and mascara. 

She’s buzzing with anticipation by the time she knocks on Miller’s door, the faint sound of bass filtering through the wood. Music spills out in a flood when Miller yanks the door open, wearing a fitted black t-shirt, fitted black jeans, and a loose smile. He pulls her inside with a laugh and Clarke has a feeling he’s already gotten started on his night. 

In the kitchen, she finds a couple of used plastic cups, an open bottle of vodka, an open container of diet coke, and a tipsy Murphy. 

Murphy drums his blue nails on the counter and moves his head in time to the song coming out of the Bluetooth speaker. They exchange niceties while Miller pours Clarke a drink. When he hands it to her, she downs it in one go, eager to catch up and start feeling fuzzy.

She takes two more shots before they head out, taking the sidewalk that leads toward campus and toward the party Murphy’s friend is hosting. Clarke doesn’t even bother bringing her coat. The vodka in her veins does enough to keep her warm. 

The party when they get there is like every other college party Clarke’s been to. Hot. Sticky. A mess of bodies bouncing around a makeshift dance floor and singing along to songs she’s heard a hundred times. And tonight, Clarke lets herself get lost in it. 

Murphy ditches them and disappears upstairs with a guy almost as soon as they arrive while Clarke and Miller dance themselves dizzy. They drink cheap beer out of red solo cups and spin around until they’re sweaty and smiley, shouting lyrics along with everyone else. 

For a couple hours, at least, Clarke gets wrapped up in the distractions. In the haze and in the warmth. 

She’s on her way back from the bathroom when she runs into Monty. He laughs when she drags him onto the dance floor behind her, over to where she left Miller. She’s too drunk to be subtle and her grin is ridiculous when she finds out Monty is in Miller’s Shakespeare lecture. Miller ducks his head, suddenly shy. She’s pretty sure Monty sees the wink she throws Miller before making a terrible and completely unbelievable excuse to leave them alone. Luckily, Miller is too distracted by Monty to even bother shooting her a glare.

Alone, the effects of the alcohol starting to fade, Clarke finds her way out onto the back porch of the house. The night air is cool against her hot skin, her hair still stuck to the back of her neck from all the dancing. She can still hear the party still going inside, but buzz fades now that she has room to breathe. With space to spare, worry lets itself in, using the key its owned for a while now. It brings loneliness with it. 

She loves Miller and tonight was fun, but, if Clarke’s being honest with herself, there’s only one person she really wants tonight. Only one person she wants every night. 

The clock on her phone tells her it’s almost one, which means Bellamy’s shift should be over. She clicks his name and his face fills her screen before she lifts her phone to her ear to listen to the other end ring.

“How’s the party?”

She smiles at his voice and leans back against a wall.

“Fine. I wish you were here, though.”

“Funny cause I was just on my way over.”

“Really?” she asks, eager excitement lighting her voice.

“Yeah,” he laughs, “I’m a few blocks away.”

“I’m on the back porch, come find me when you get here.”

Five minutes later, the porch door creaks and Bellamy steps outside, Clarke pulls him immediately down into a kiss.

“Miss me, Princess?” he asks, breathing fast.

She hums and kisses him again, “Just your mouth.”

She feels Bellamy grin and he pulls back to cock an eyebrow. 

“My mouth, huh?” 

Clarke laughs.

She presses her thumb into the corner of his smile and drags it across his bottom lip.

“Yeah, your mouth.”

She kisses him again and the kiss turns heated. They lick into each other’s mouth and drag their hands across each other’s bodies. Bellamy’s fingers find the cutouts in her dress and linger there, tracing her bare skin. Clarke’s back presses into the railing and Bellamy’s hips press into hers.

He groans, “Why are we at a party full of people right now?”

“You just got here,” Clarke laughs, cutting off into a gasp when Bellamy’s teeth worry the skin beneath her ear. Her right hand sinks into his hair.

“I only came to see you,” Bellamy breathes, coming up to catch her mouth again. She trails her fingers down his chest to where she can feel Bellamy growing hard inside his jeans. She starts to slip her fingers into the waistband, but he catches her wrist before she gets very far.

“We really need to go someplace private if you’re going to do that.”

Raven and Octavia are at the apartment tonight, but that means her dorm room is free.

“Well, I know a place that’s empty and has a twin bed that barely even squeaks…”

Bellamy grins, “Perfect.”

She heads inside to tell Miller she’s leaving but opts to text him instead when she sees he’s busy making out with Monty in a corner. 

When they get to her dorm, Bellamy has her pressed against the wall, one of his thighs slotted between hers, in no time at all. She tugs his t-shirt over his head and he kisses her while she struggles with his belt. He pulls away to help her with the buckle and she takes the opportunity to strip off her dress and toss it to the side. Bellamy still has his jeans on, but he gets distracted by Clarke’s lacy black bra and newly bared skin. He drags his lips across the tops of her breasts and traces his fingers down her hips and up the insides of her thighs. He kisses his way down her stomach and Clarke shivers at the wet trail his mouth leaves down. 

She comes to her senses when he falls to his knees, nose catching on the edge of her panties. She pulls him back up into a kiss before he can get any further and she gets lost in it completely.

“Maybe later,” she whispers, unbuttoning Bellamy’s jeans and sliding her hand inside his boxers. “Right now, I want you inside me.” 

Bellamy’s groan gets muffled by her mouth as he kisses her and kisses her and kisses her. 

They find their way to her bed, the lights all off, and Bellamy falls back, bouncing on the mattress. 

Clarke’s fingers curl inside his waistband once again and Bellamy lifts his hips to help her pull off his jeans and boxers at the same time. His dick is already hard and it slaps against his stomach, leaving a trail of precum on his skin. Bellamy’s kiss is biting when he drags Clarke down on top of him. He traces her lips with his tongue and she grinds down, breath catching at the feel of him, hot and hard between her legs. 

Bellamy reaches over to grab a condom from her desk drawer and Clarke slips off her underwear, leaving her bra on. When he sees, Bellamy drags his thumb along the lacy edge and bites at the soft skin, leaving a pink mark on her breast before he has to pull away to roll the condom on. 

Bellamy scoots back so he’s leaning against the headboard and Clarke crawls on top of him, curling her arms around his shoulders and straddling his hips. He lines himself up and kisses her as she sinks down. Moans and breath collide in the air between them. Clarke meets Bellamy’s eyes when she starts moving. He meets her thrusts and they get lost in gasps and time. 

Clarke leans back to change the angle and Bellamy cants his hips up, hitting that spot inside her that makes the world fade to a distant roar. It doesn’t take long before Clarke is coming with choked sigh, she clenches around Bellamy and he follows a breath later. 

After, she rests her forehead against his as they both struggle to catch their breath. Then she pulls off carefully and Bellamy gets up to toss the condom in the trash before tripping back into bed. 

They curl around each other, Clarke’s nose in Bellamy’s hair and her lips against his forehead. His breath warms her collarbone and they drift into sleep, tangled together like that’s how they were meant to be.  


 

* * *

 

  
When she wakes up the next morning, Bellamy is still asleep, but now she’s nestled against his back, his chest rising and falling beneath her hand. 

She lies there for a few minutes, enjoying the peace—enjoying the warmth. But soon enough, anxieties trickle back in. She sighs. It could only last for so long.

Bellamy rouses when she sits up, the bed too small for her to avoid bumping him. 

“I’m gonna go get coffee and breakfast, but I’ll be right back,” she whispers, smiling when Bellamy mumbles something, still half-asleep, before curling back into the pillow.

Twenty minutes later, she lets herself in the door, laden with coffee and muffins and finds Bellamy already sitting up. He has a ridiculous case of bedhead and he rubs his eyes and smiles at her. Sleepy and sweet.

Clarke tosses the paper bag with the muffins onto the bed beside him and hands him his cup of coffee. 

She already finished half of hers.The caffeine did wonders for her thought process and now she just needs Bellamy to catch up so they can talk.

Half a muffin and a few sips of coffee later, Clarke can’t wait any longer.

“I need to go see my mom again.”

Bellamy looks up, startled. He swallows his mouthful of blueberry muffin.

“What?” 

“She’s leaving town tomorrow and she’s expecting a response from me before she goes.”

Bellamy sets the muffin down, “You can’t do it over the phone?”

“She’s expecting me to agree. I don’t think she’ll leave unless I tell her in person.”

Clarke looks down, tracing her finger around the plastic top on her coffee. 

“Would you…” she swallows, “Would you be willing to come with me to see her?” 

She looks up and catches a flicker of surprise, but no resentment—no annoyance.

Bellamy clears his throat, “I—yeah, of course, I’ll go with you. Anything you want.”

Clarke kisses him and Bellamy tastes like coffee, blueberries, and her favorite person in the world.  


 

* * *

 

  
She calls her mom and a few hours later she and Bellamy are in the elevator, headed for the penthouse suite of The Coronado hotel. Clarke already warned Bellamy about the guards, about the gaudy opulence of the room, about her mom.

She didn’t know she needed to warn him about Lexa too.  


 

* * *

 

  
“Clarke, it’s good to see you again,” Lexa says, cool, reserved. 

“Can’t say the feeling is mutual,” Clarke turns to her mother, “Mom, you didn’t tell me she would be here.”

“You didn’t tell me you were bringing your boy. I’d say we’re even.”

Lexa’s eyes trail over Bellamy, but he doesn’t even blink at the inspection.

“Here to protect Clarke from the big bad wolf?” Lexa asks.

“Clarke can handle herself,” Bellamy replies easily, “I’m here because she wanted me to be.”

Lexa stiffens and Clarke swallows a smug smile before focusing back on her mother.

“I’m not agreeing to the deal.”

Lexa snaps her gaze to Clarke. And even Abby looks surprised.

“Now Clarke, you can’t—“

“I know that this means forfeiting the money and I’m okay with that. I just can’t agree to your terms.”

Her mother stares at her for a few beats of cold silence. Lexa’s eyes bounce between Clarke and her mother like she wants to step in. Abby’s voice cuts the quiet before she can.

“You’ll change your mind.” Clarke hates how her mother sounds so sure. She’s so _sure_ Clarke can’t manage on her own.

(Clarke guesses that this choice will be the one that proves her right or wrong.)

“I don’t think so.”

Lexa chimes in, “Clarke, you’re making a mistake.”

Clarke shrugs, “Maybe. But I’m making the right one.”  


 

* * *

 

  
The following Thursday night, Bellamy has another shift at the bar, so Clarke drags Raven and Octavia with her to go see him. 

The fight is still hanging over their heads and now there’s no net to catch them, but Clarke can’t help but feel giddy. 

There’s a maybe now where there used to be a never. And the possibility of happy ending is more than Clarke ever expected. 

(Hope is a dangerous, intoxicating drug.)

When an upbeat song comes on, Clarke pulls Raven onto the dance floor. Raven laughs and goes easily, swinging her hips. Clarke feels like the rest of her life is rolling out in front of her. 

She and Raven are two girls with bitter beginnings, two best friends who made it this far anyway. And now, Raven has Octavia. Now, Clarke has Bellamy. Now, they both have shots at something neither one of them ever expected: a happy ending.

When Octavia joins them after a couple songs, Raven wraps her arms around her waist, whispering something into her girlfriend’s ear. The two of them seem to forget the world around each other. Clarke smiles and keeps dancing, raising her hands above her head and letting her body sway to the beat.

Her bubble bursts when an unfamiliar hand lands on her hip. Clarke glances over her shoulder at the man it belongs to and moves away, pushing further into the crowd.

Discomfort follows when the man does. 

She huffs an annoyed sigh and decides to leave the dance floor rather than cause a scene. But, of course, the guy follows her to the bar. 

Bellamy is serving a customer at the other end, so he doesn’t notice Clarke or the guy who sidles up beside her. His breath reeks of alcohol when he leans in.

“Let me buy you a drink, sweetheart.”

Clarke doesn’t look at him. She keeps her tone polite and detached. She’s dealt with her share of guys who can’t take hint before, but it still sucks every time. 

“No, thank you."

“Aw, come on, baby. Don’t be like that,” the guy leers, pressing in closer, his arm curling around her waist. Disgust rises in her throat and Clarke stiffens. 

She’s about to say something harsh but a familiar voice cuts in before she can.

“Dude, back off, she said no," Bellamy says from behind the bar. His expression is neutral, but Clarke can see the tension in his shoulders.

The man beside her sneers at Bellamy, “This none of your business.” He turns back to Clarke, “One drink, sweetheart."

Clarke shoves away his arm, “I’m. Not. Interested.” 

She starts to walk away, but the man reaches out and grabs ahold of her wrist.

“Hey! You don’t need to be a bitch. I was just—” 

He cuts off when Bellamy steps between them, appearing between one blink and the next. 

“She said she’s not interested. Leave her alone or I’m calling security." Bellamy doesn’t touch the guy, but the threat in his words seems to be enough.

The man lets go of Clarke’s wrist and finally backs off. 

“ _Fine._ I’m leaving.” He disappears into the crowd and Clarke lets out the breath she was holding. 

Bellamy turns to Clarke. He tucks a curl behind her ear and rubs his thumb along her jaw.

“You okay?"

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she smiles, “You didn’t need to step in.”

“I know, but I didn’t want my girlfriend to get banned from the bar I work at for punching some asshole.”

“Actually, I was going to go with a knee to the groin.”

Bellamy snorts and glances over his shoulder, “I should get back to work before my manager notices that I’m not behind the bar.”

He brushes a kiss to Clarke’s temple and she nods.

“I think I’m going to head home."

“Okay, my shift ends in twenty if you don’t mind waiting a little." 

Clarke smiles and presses a quick kiss to Bellamy’s mouth. “Hook me up with a free drink and I’ll consider it."  


 

* * *

 

  
Half an hour later, Raven and Octavia leave in Raven’s car while Clarke waits for Bellamy to grab his stuff from the back. 

The ground is wet when they step outside, puddles scattered on the asphalt from a passing storm and the night cool and heavy from the rain. 

They’re walking over to where Bellamy parked his truck in the corner of the lot, Clarke tucked under Bellamy’s arm, when a voice calls out. Jarring against the peaceful night.

“Guess the hero act pays off!"

The voice is loud, male, and distinctly drunk. When they turn, Clarke recognizes the guy who was hitting on her earlier. He staggers towards them, unsteady, and Clarke rolls her eyes. She slides out from under Bellamy’s arm and moves to the passenger side of Bellamy’s truck. 

She turns her head when she hears Bellamy start to say something, but neither one of them are ready for it when the guy slams his fist into the side of Bellamy’s face. 

The world stops. 

The man’s knuckles crack against Bellamy’s cheek. It’s a surprise, but it shouldn’t be a problem. After all, Bellamy’s used to taking hits. 

He stumbles and reaches out a hand to steady himself on the hood of his truck, but the surface is slick with rainwater and his hand slips. 

Bellamy’s momentum sends him sliding forward. He smacks his head on the bumper. He smacks his head on the ground. He doesn’t even bring his hands up to slow his fall. He just drops like a stone.

Clarke scrambles forward, falling to her knees beside Bellamy. She looks up at the guy who punched him. Worried for a moment that there might be more. 

But the asshole just stands there, dumbfounded. The red flush on his cheeks gives way as he pales. He stumbles away and Clarke focuses back on Bellamy when he groans, struggling to push himself into an upright position. 

The pavement digs uncomfortably into her knees as she grabs Bellamy’s shoulder and helps him sit up. 

She breathes a curse when she sees his face. There’s a gash on his temple and blood drips down his cheek. There’s a myriad of scrapes on the left side of his face from where he hit the ground. 

“Bellamy…” His eyes are unfocused and he’s moving his head like it weighs a ton.

Clarke swallows. Her optimism from earlier has disappeared and fear is back, sevenfold.

Because it’s Thursday—no, Friday now—and the fight… the fight is happening Saturday night. 

Whether Bellamy is ready or not.  


 

* * *

 

  
Lincoln leads Clarke, Raven, and Octavia into the venue through a side door, and the noise, when they get inside, is deafening. 

Anya staged the fight in a warehouse that’s a twenty-minute drive from Campus. But the distance doesn’t seem to have kept any spectators away. 

Tonight is the infamous Bellamy Blake’s last fight. And more people have turned out for this fight than any other Clarke’s been to. But, then again, that’s the point. 

Both Bellamy and Anya need to make a lot of money on this fight. Unfortunately, that also means that the odds against Bellamy have to be high. 

And they are. Because tonight Bellamy is fighting one of the few people who’s ever bested him. Tonight, Bellamy’s up against Dax. The man who left him laid out on the concrete and wouldn’t stop punching. The man who left him with cracked ribs and a bruised brain. 

There are rusty nails and razor blades in Clarke’s stomach. Worry and fear and panic cut at Clarke with their sharp edges.

She takes a deep breath and tries to block out the hot crowd. Block out the loud noise. She fixates on the memory of Bellamy’s kiss just half an hour ago. Soft and solid and strong. 

_I’ll be fine,_ he’d told her. But Clarke knows Bellamy too well by now to buy his lies. Even when he’s lying to himself too. 

She follows Lincoln through the crowd, Raven’s hand clutched in hers like it was at that first fight. This time, she knows what to expect, but that only makes it worse.

For the first time, the crowd is roped off. One of the precautions taken by Anya. Around the warehouse, Clarke can see the other ones: the men and women stationed as security to manage the crowd. 

Clarke’s practically vibrating by the time Lincoln finds them a place at the edge of the ring. 

Her hands are trembling and her palms sweat. Her heart feels too tight inside her chest. She barely notices the worried look Lincoln shoots her or the way Raven curls protectively around her. She’s too focused on the center of the ring where Anya’s taking her place with a megaphone and a stool. 

At least now the waiting is over.

Anya introduces the fight like always. Outlining the rules. Introducing the fighters. She introduces Dax first. 

The man Bellamy is meant to fight doesn’t look like Clarke expected. Not at all. He looks… normal. Like any other guy she’s seen around campus. He doesn’t look like her nightmares. 

Anya calls Bellamy’s name next and the crowd roars, cheering and jeering in equal measure. Clarke resists the urge to cover her ears. 

When Bellamy emerges, torso bare and ink on display, he looks strong. But Clarke knows better.

There’s a bruise on his temple. There are scabs on his cheek. She knows that he was dizzy for hours on Friday morning. She knows he’s still not completely fine. His eyes aren’t as sharp as they should be. His cocky smile is forced. 

Dax, on the other hand, looks steady as stone. Calm. He smiles when Bellamy meet his eyes. 

It’s the smile that makes Clarke’s stomach drop. Cruel. A savage promise. Now, reality reflects her nightmares.

Clarke takes a deep breath as Anya steps down from the stool and out of the ring.

Not even a minute later, the crowd cheers at the first sight of blood.  


 

* * *

 

  
Bellamy folds around the fist Dax lands in his stomach, blood still dripping from the cut on his lip, but then he grabs Dax’s wrist and spins, throwing out his elbow. His elbow connects with the side of Dax’s head, but it doesn’t seem to faze him at all. Dax shoves Bellamy away and a moment later Bellamy is too slow to dodge the fist Dax throws. Bellamy’s head snaps to the side. He spits more blood on the ground. 

Something like fear—something like desperation cracks the careful veneer Bellamy usually wears. His next hits are frantic as he throws his fist—his elbow—his knee. But the hits barely slow Dax down. 

There’s blood crusting in the corner of Bellamy’s mouth and not a stain on Dax. 

Dax’s eyes are as sharp as two blades and Bellamy’s chest heaves. When Dax lunges, Bellamy only barely manages to move out of the way. He throws his fist and clips Dax in the mouth with his knuckles. 

This time, the blood on the floor belongs to Dax.

He smiles again, his teeth now coated in red. 

Time seems to move fast and slow at the same time. Seconds stretch on into eternity and disappear in a blink. 

Bellamy glances over at Clarke and Dax uses the moment of distraction to tackle Bellamy to the floor. 

They hit the packed earth with a hard thud. They wrestle, both men struggling to get the upper hand. More blood mixes with the dirt. 

Bellamy manages to shove Dax off. He scrambles to his feet. Dax is up in a flash, hurling a punch which Bellamy dodges. Bellamy slams his fist into Dax’s stomach. Once. Twice. Then he lands two more blows on Dax’s chin. Finally, he lobs a sharp left hook into the side of Dax’s head. 

Dax falls to his knees. Then to his side. He doesn’t get up. 

The crowd’s noise crashes like thunder and Bellamy’s smile is lightning when Anya lifts his arm into the air. 

_He did it. He won. It’s over._

A couple guys step in to help Dax out of the ring, but Clarke’s focus is on Bellamy as turns to her, lit up like he won the whole world. 

She ducks under the rope and crashes into him. Arms around his neck. Mouth against his shoulder. Bellamy smiles into her hair. 

Clarke ignores the coppery taste of blood when she pulls back to kiss him. She ignores the noise of the crowds and the way her hands shake with the lingering effects of fear. She lets the world fall away and just kisses him. Desperate. Electric. Giddy with excitement and high on hope.

Clarke has Bellamy and he has her and now nothing stands between them and their forever.  


 

* * *

 

  
_~ A year and a half later ~_

 

Clarke wakes up to Bellamy pressing kisses down her spine. She smiles into the pillow before turning over to look at him. He’s in nothing but his boxers, and when he kisses her, he tastes like toothpaste and coffee. 

Clarke smiles when Bellamy hands her a warm mug. 

“You’re my favorite,” she sighs, taking a sip. 

“I know,” he grins. 

Clarke snorts and takes a few more sips of coffee before sliding out of bed. She steps into the bathroom and shuts the door. Her hair is a mess of knots from the night before when she and Bellamy spent hours memorizing each other’s bodies like they’d somehow managed to forget each other in the past two weeks.

Clarke is two months into her junior year at Ark U and Bellamy now lives and works in DC, so they don’t see each other as often as they’d like.

Back at Ark, Clarke lives with Wells while in DC, Bellamy shares an apartment with Miller. Both of them starting the process towards becoming detectives. (“Those fighting skills had to pay off somehow, Princess.”)

He’s only forty-minute drive away, but most days it feels like more. 

Clarke drags a comb through her hair and brushes her teeth before sliding back into bed beside Bellamy. 

He kisses her again before she even has a chance to say good morning. 

She laughs into his eager kiss, “It’s been twelve days, Bellamy.”

“Twelve days too long,” he mutters, tilting her chin to get a better angle on her mouth. 

She kisses him back, her hand grasping the back of Bellamy’s neck as his hand slides up the outside of her thigh. He’s warm and soft and it’s dumb, but she did miss him the past twelve days. She missed him a lot. They talked every night and skyped last weekend, but when Bellamy’s gone she feels… she doesn’t feel like a part of her is missing, but life is just so much better with him around. Around Bellamy, Clarke feels happier. Lighter. Just… more. 

She loves him, he loves her, and it’s as simple as that.

They tangle in lingering kiss after lingering kiss, Bellamy’s weight pressing her down into his sheets. They’re soft and they smell like a mix of Bellamy’s shampoo and laundry detergent. They smell like home.

Bellamy’s tongue slowly explores her mouth. Clarke’s fingers slowly explore his skin.

Rush and frenzy can be hot, but Clarke’s favorite moments are the ones like this one. Sleepy and warm. Slow and steady. The ones where she can get caught up in the moment. In simple, soft love.

They drink their coffee in bed, sitting with their backs against the headboard. Clarke’s legs resting on top of Bellamy’s thighs and his thumb tracing circles just above her knee.

“Octavia tell you about her and Raven’s latest plan?” Clarke asks.

Bellamy nods, his mouth curving into a fond smile. “Yeah, she said they’re planning a road trip to Mexico this summer.”

“You can’t say they aren’t ambitious.”

“No, you really can’t. At least Raven knows what to do if the car breaks down.”

“Speaking of summer, I’ve been looking into some internships in DC…” 

“Big fan of our nation’s capital?” 

Clarke looks at him, “One resident in particular.”

“Miller’s pretty great.”

She grins, “Think he’ll let me crash with him? I’m going to need a place to stay.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you, I heard his roommate’s an ass.”

“Only half the time.”

Bellamy’s laughing when he kisses her, their mouths bumping and Clarke’s coffee nearly spilling onto the bed. She manages to get it onto the table in time and grins when Bellamy presses a warm kiss to her jaw. And then another to the corner of her mouth.

He rests his forehead against hers and looks at her. And something about the look in his eyes makes Clarke’s heartbeat pick up. 

“Marry me.” 

“Yes.” She doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t pause to think. Bellamy is her forever. She’s known it for a while now. “Yes.”

Bellamy’s smile is so bright it blinds. And they’re both too happy for their next kiss to be anything but teeth. They laugh when their smiles click and Bellamy gives up the attempt to press his grin into Clarke’s cheek. 

Clarke threads her fingers into Bellamy’s hair and wraps her arms around him. They hold each until their smiles get soft. 

Bellamy reaches over and retrieves a small black box from his bedside drawer. Clarke blinks away tears when she sees the ring inside. A band of silver and a band of white gold twining into one. Two brands of metal meeting to form something beautiful. 

“You didn’t need to buy me a ring to get me to spend the rest of my life with you, you know,” she tells Bellamy as he slides the ring onto her finger.

Bellamy looks up at her. “I know,” he smiles, “but I’ve been carrying this ring around for over a year, it’s too late to return it.”

Clarke grins and surges up to meet him in a kiss. 

They don’t untangle for a long time. 

Maybe forever.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this story has been one of the most gratifying and frustrating experiences I've ever undertaken so it would mean the world to me if you let me know what you thought. 
> 
> You can leave a comment here or find me on tumblr [@antebellamy](http://antebellamy.tumblr.com/) where I'll be writing lots of other (shorter) things ;)
> 
>    
> If you're new here or you stuck it out from the start, thank you thank you thank you for taking the time to read <3

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can find my on [my tumblr](http://antebellamy.tumblr.com/) <3
> 
> ([check out the picspam I made :) ](http://antebellamy.tumblr.com/post/130319906172/a-kiss-with-a-fist-is-better-than-none-blood))


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